


Below a Broken Wing

by furiosity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Novella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiosity/pseuds/furiosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the world heals post-war, Draco tries to avoid Harry Potter like the black plague, and Harry pretends Draco Malfoy doesn't exist. So why is it that they keep on crossing paths? Featuring noble winged steeds, moving houses, bizarre coincidences, ancient technology, feeble excuses, harsh honesty, Miss Flappington, and words from the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Below a Broken Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Silyara's prompt [here](http://furiosity.livejournal.com/691173.html). Title is a paraphrased lyric from Drilled a Wire Through my Cheek by Blue October. Both Ron and Ginny are in this story, so even though Draco is the point-of-view character, he refers to them by their given names in his own mind; this is something I chose to do because I believe it is more important to minimise reader confusion than maintain a relatively minor aspect of character. Constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated.

  
**Below a Broken Wing**   


Contrary to all expectations, Draco Malfoy wished to go to London.

He detested London, eternally bathed in the stink of car exhaust and thronged endlessly with Muggles. Nevertheless, he had woken up that morning with a vague plan to spend the day in London. He didn't remember planning it the day before: in fact, he didn't really remember what he'd been doing. All the days since the war's end blurred and shimmered in his mind like ripples in a rain puddle.

Perhaps his brain had had enough of idle moping about and would now act quite independently of Draco's consciousness. Draco found it somewhat disturbing that he perceived this to be good news.

"London, Draco? If there is something you require, we'll send a house-elf," Lucius Malfoy said over breakfast after Draco announced his intentions.

"I just fancy a day trip," Draco said without looking up from his toast. "It feels like I haven't left Malfoy Manor in a week."

"That's because you haven't," Narcissa Malfoy remarked. "You haven't stepped beyond the gates since we returned from Hogwarts."

Hogwarts. _There_ was a place Draco definitely did not wish to visit, today or ever. Nor would he have to: along with the rest of his year, he would be allowed to sit the N.E.W.T.s at a Ministry-approved location later that summer -- probably in London. London, again. The top of Draco's toast was long past ethereal buttery sheen and well into congested artery territory.

"I'll take Silver Winter," he said, scraping the excess butter off. "I won't be long." Trying to explain would only invite questions he did not know how to answer. Besides, it was not as though they could stop him doing what he wished. They never could.

"Stable her at Dulwich and be home by teatime," Lucius said with a resigned shrug. "The Parkinsons are coming over."

"If this is about Pansy, I'm not changing my mind," Draco said.

"No one here is going to try and change your mind," Narcissa said, ringing for a house-elf. "But we can't refuse to hear them out."

"Fine," Draco said, rising, his appetite gone. "I'll be sure to return in time. Please excuse me."

He had broken their engagement on account of Pansy's appalling Great Hall spectacle on the last day of the war. The last thing he wanted was to marry a woman all his peers would remember as someone the Daily Prophet now breathlessly dubbed the Cowardly Slytherin, the one who had given an excuse to that bitter old twat McGonagall to dismiss Slytherin House en masse, humiliating every one of them before the rest of the school. His parents had agreed with him, of course: best to try and make everyone remember that the Malfoy family went to the winning side _before_ it won -- while making them forget they were ever on the other side at all.

But that had not been Draco's only reason. With Pansy out of the picture, he would be _free_ until his parents found a more suitable match, which might not happen for years. He and Pansy had been promised to each other since toddlerhood, but as a toddler, Draco had not known that he'd much rather marry Pansy's older brother.

He could not live according to _that_ desire, of course; it was one thing to do as he liked but quite another to profoundly disappoint his parents. As the only son, he had a duty to carry on the family name. He resented that duty no more than birds resented their wings, but surely even birds must wonder what it might be like to swim instead of flying. Without Pansy in his life, Draco could at least find out what it was like to have sex for the pure joy of it. Before, that had been out of the question: even if he had been willing to break his word to Pansy, he could hardly have done it at Hogwarts, where every Slytherin's business was every other Slytherin's business too.

Besides, at Hogwarts, there had been the unlikely star of his first wet dreams: Harry Potter. He had long ago given up trying to eradicate the attraction; no matter how much he loathed everything Potter stood for, Draco still wanted him. And Potter was unattainable, which made him more desirable -- perhaps the reason Draco fixated on Potter in the first place had been Potter's refusal of his friendship back in first year. In fourth year, Draco had tried to shift his focus to Viktor Krum -- just as famous and out of reach, if a lot uglier -- but it hadn't worked. Oh, there had been others who'd caught Draco's attention, but never for long: his gaze always returned to Potter and, seeing him, Draco found fault with all the rest. But Hogwarts was over, and Draco was confident it would be easy to avoid Potter now. And if he did not see Potter, he would eventually forget about him.

He had an elf bring him a summer cloak and walked outside, making his way to the stables by the manor's east wing. There was no Apparating allowed on the grounds any more, especially not for house-elves, since Potter and his friends had escaped from the cellars. Narcissa had even disconnected the manor from the Floo network; she said it made her feel safer.

As Draco walked into the stable, Silver Winter -- a Granian filly Draco had received on his seventeenth birthday -- whickered from her stall as she scented him, and Draco pulled open the bag of Pink Coconut Ice that hung just out of Winter's reach. As he fed her the treat, Draco patted the filly's pale grey flank. On a day like today, she would fade right into the sky, though he still cast the requisite Disillusionment Charm before swinging up onto her back.

"Dulwich," he said. Silver Winter trotted out of the stable and unfolded her wings.

*

From Dulwich, Draco Apparated to the Diagon Alley passage behind the Leaky Cauldron without thinking and realised that he had no desire to go to Diagon Alley. He still had no idea why he was even here in the first place, but as soon as he dismounted from Winter's back, Draco had begun to feel oddly relieved, and it was intensifying. Perhaps he _had_ spent far too many days cooped up in his quarters.

Draco Transfigured his cloak to resemble a long Muggle coat -- unseasonable but enough to conceal his robes -- and walked away from the Diagon Alley entrance, not really knowing where the hell he was going. His father's travel books always talked about exploring foreign destinations using the point-and-go method: point in a direction and go that way until you find something interesting, or don't. And Draco certainly felt like a foreigner every time he ended up in Muggle London: all those people, strangely dressed, carrying on about incomprehensible subjects like "the stock exchange" and "global warming", scurrying past gaudy adverts featuring scantily clad women with too-perfect hair, dodging one another and a colourful variety of metal conveyances.

He turned a corner into a side-street to escape the hubbub and made his way past several shabby shops before reaching a brick wall covered with rude slogans and incomprehensible artwork, and realised he was right near the Ministry of Magic. He hadn't been this way since his father had shown him the area many years ago, but he was quite certain that if he continued past the pub on the far side of the wall, he'd find that glass box through which visitors could enter the Ministry. He froze as he spotted a familiar shock of black hair across the empty street. Potter. Of course. He had wasted no time in joining up with the Aurors; the Prophet was running a series of special feature articles about it. Draco turned up the collar on his makeshift coat and withdrew into the roughly man-sized gap between the painted wall and the building next to it, peering out.

Potter looked intent on making his way somewhere, and it was no wonder he'd chosen this disused little street: he was dressed in full wizarding regalia. Most Ministry officials changed into Muggle clothes to go outside for any reason, but Potter was probably too important to bother with such little details now. Draco watched him, taking note of his gait, the slightly over-long robes swirling near his booted feet, his hands shoved in his pockets, glasses balancing on the edge of his nose, looking about to fall off.

Potter stopped abruptly and turned to look in Draco's direction, as though jerked by an invisible string. Draco pulled back into the shadows and prayed that Potter hadn't spotted him, that he'd keep walking along on the opposite side of the street -- until Potter's footfalls approached Draco's hiding spot. Draco folded his arms across his chest and leaned casually sideways against the building wall, steeling himself for the inevitable questions. But Potter merely stopped across from him and stared, as though not recognising Draco. As though Draco weren't even _there_. Then he shook his head with disgust and walked off.

For a few moments, Draco stared at the spot where Potter had been, disbelieving. Potter hadn't even acknowledged him! Why, when Draco caught up with him, he'd give Potter a--

The irony of the situation caught up with him instead: had he not just told himself, not an hour ago, that he needed to keep away from Potter? And now he was ready to pitch a right fit over Potter ignoring him? No, as much as he wanted to, he was not going to follow Potter.

…Wanted to? That was strange. Why would he want to follow Potter? Years ago, he might've done it just to demand Potter's attention, since for years he had wanted that in any way he could get it. But he'd thought he was past that -- perhaps not. All the same, he would not follow Potter. He would go home.

*

He took his time on the way back, intending to be just a slight bit late, lest Pansy entertain any foolish notions about the extent of his desire to see her.

The Parkinsons were already seated in the downstairs drawing room when Draco arrived. He stopped by quickly to excuse himself for a few moments to get changed from his journey, carefully avoiding looking at Pansy, who sat on the sofa at the far end of the room, sullen but composed. When he returned, Draco sat as far away from her as possible and helped himself to his favourite cucumber mint sandwiches as he listened to the adults discuss the changes sweeping the Ministry of Magic.

"Mark me," Mr Parkinson said, shaking a slim finger in his wife's face even though he was addressing Lucius. "You cannot change a institution thousands of years old by introducing a few rule alterations."

"I was under the impression Shacklebolt's seven-year plan is a bit more extensive than you say, Herman," Narcissa objected. "Of course, we are not privy to as much inside information as we once were, but I've heard that he's not simply re-evaluating staff; he's looking at whether or not many positions actually serve a useful purpose, and he plans to eliminate any that do not."

"That'll never fly," Mr Parkinson said. "He can't just kick people out of jobs they've done their entire lives; no one will stand for it."

"I agree with Herman," Lucius said. "Some of the positions at the Ministry are practically hereditary. Shacklebolt can't afford to lose support from any more families, and he knows that."

"I think Shacklebolt wants to get rid of as many pure-bloods in the Ministry as he can without getting stung by his own Anti-Discrimination Proclamation," Narcissa said. "In the latest interview, he talked a lot about making sure that the Ministry employment roster reflects the whole of the wizarding population rather than a small minority of it."

"Oh, I don't know how you can stand reading those, Narcissa," the diminutive Mrs Parkinson chimed in. "They're so awfully dull."

Draco chewed his sandwich and tuned them out. All during the flight home and since, his thoughts kept returning to Potter, and the more he thought about it, the more furious it made him. He had felt so _strange_ looking into Potter's eyes: mesmerised. Years of desire-laced hatred had seethed in his gut, and he hadn't even been able to _speak_.

It did no good imagining how the encounter might have been different, but he couldn't help it. Dozens of scenarios paraded through his mind, in all of which, of course, Draco got the best of Potter. The fantasies made him feel good for brief moments, but the better the fantasy, the more he cringed inwardly at the reality, the more desperately he wanted to change what had happened. He hated it when he got like this, so Draco forced his attention back to the conversation.

"So we have decided to move to London permanently," Lucius was saying.

Draco nearly dropped the remains of his fourth sandwich. _What?_ He'd heard his parents discussing the idea, but he hadn't realised any decisions had been made -- what more, without his input? They both knew full well how much Draco detested London. Any place would be better than London. Even Cardiff would be better than London!

"We've put an offer in on a villa that used to belong to the Blishwicks," Narcissa said. Her eyes cut to Draco for a brief instant, amused, and he realised he'd been had. There was of course no way he was going to make a scene in front of the Parkinsons, and once they left here and told everyone what the Malfoys were intending, no amount of complaining from Draco would change their plans.

"Dear me, London?" Mrs Parkinson exclaimed, clutching her tea cup protectively. "But-- but there are so many _Muggles_!"

"The area we chose has the right sort of Muggles, if there is such a thing -- people with money," Lucius said.

"I don't think we'll have a problem in any case," Narcissa said. "The house is of course Unplottable, and it's got better security features than even my aunt and uncle's home, and you remember how _they_ were."

"Oh, yes, I don't think I'll ever forget getting hit with six different itching curses when we tried to sneak out of the garden that one time -- why were we there, again?"

"Regulus's seventh birthday party, I believe," Narcissa said, smiling. "That was rather like my uncle: If you were there to party, you would stay and party until he said you could leave."

Lucius, who never seemed to enjoy being reminded that his wife and Mrs Parkinson were childhood friends, said, "I think Narcissa's uncle had the right idea about living closer to Muggles. Muggle-heavy areas have much more Ministry monitoring of errant magic use. Out here, anyone could get as close as the gates without us knowing. By the new Ministry regulations, we're not allowed to put Intruder Charms farther than a mile around our home."

"Our _home_ ," Narcissa said. "When we own enough land around it to build _six_ Manors, miles apart!"

Mr Parkinson sat up. "Wait just a moment -- what right has the Ministry got to tell you what to do with your own land?"

"Apparently, as the Muggle population increases, we must allow for a greater margin of error, whatever that's supposed to mean," Lucius piped up. "I suspect it will eventually mean the families with the larger land claims will have to sell their land to the Ministry for a pittance so they can cede it to the Muggles."

Mrs Parkinson tossed her hair in derision. "They would never get away with that. How is it _our_ problem that those things breed like vermin?"

"No, Lucius is right," Mr Parkinson said, shaking his head. "There are perhaps six or seven families with significant land claims. With the political climate as it is now, they'd never manage to win enough popular support to make the Ministry stand aside."

"Precisely," Lucius said. "We are merely thinking ahead. I'd also like to start looking into properties abroad, and it's so much easier to arrange travel to the continent from London."

Draco knew what he was referring to, though he doubted the Parkinsons did; they would probably assume he meant lower Portkey fees, less waiting time, or things of that nature. But for all that his father detested Muggles, he had always found their travel networks most agreeable, because they allowed him to come and go as he pleased: all magical means required Ministry approval and the requisite paper trail. All Lucius needed to get to France or Germany the Muggle way -- besides money -- was a funny little book with a still photograph and a fake name.

"Is that the long-term goal, then?" Mr Parkinson asked. "Establishing yourselves across the Chunnel?"

Lucius shrugged with a mysterious air. "It'll be up to Draco, really. We'd simply like to make sure we're in the position with the most options."

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. If any part of this were up to him, they'd have asked him before putting in any offers. In London!

Mrs Parkinson, having recovered from the London announcement -- posh manor here or there, the Malfoys would still have a considerable Gringotts vault at their disposal, which was really all that mattered to Draco's once would-be in-laws -- turned to Draco. "So what are _your_ plans, dear?"

"The inquest first, I should think," Draco said. The Ministry had wasted no time; the dust had barely had time to light on post-war Hogwarts before the Malfoys received a binding summons to appear for questioning at the Minister's convenience. "After that, I thought I might apply for a Granian trainer license."

He had not seriously considered it, but he couldn't appear wishy-washy here; they had to see that he was determined to move on with his life, and that asking him to take Pansy back, however circumspect they'd be about it, was out of the question. "Winkus Harkiss -- he runs the wizarding stables in Dulwich -- thinks I might be quite good at it."

"A noble hobby to occupy your leisure time is all well and good, but I'm curious about your plans for expanding the family fortune, Draco," Mr Parkinson joined in, leaning forward.

Draco took a considered sip of tea and gave one of his father's trademark shrugs. "There's quite a bit of money in winged horseflesh, actually -- as a trainer, I would establish a network of breeder contacts all over the continent. Facilitate a sale here or there, and soon enough I'd have enough resources to take over Dulwich and start trading. Then there's racing -- it's been growing quite popular since the Department of Magical Games and Sports decided to only let Granians compete."

"Sounds like you've thought about this quite a bit," Mrs Parkinson remarked, glancing at Pansy, who looked appropriately poleaxed since, of course, this was nothing Draco had ever spoken to her about. Seeing as he had just pulled it out of his arse.

"What are your plans, Pansy?" Narcissa asked, and Draco wanted to laugh; she had timed it quite perfectly, and her tone was very much "your-plans-on-your-own-without-any-involvement-from-my-son-thank-you".

Pansy lifted her chin deliberately, the way she always did when she wanted to buy time. "I'm wondering if I shouldn't go back to Hogwarts to repeat seventh year, actually," she said after a moment.

Draco snorted. "Good luck with that."

"No need to be nasty, Draco," Lucius said. "I'd actually recommend the same for you if you weren't so advanced. This past year has hardly been exemplary in terms of instruction."

"The next year isn't likely to be much better," Draco insisted. "I wouldn't be surprised if they disbanded Slytherin house altogether."

"They can't do that, can they?" Mrs Parkinson glanced anxiously at her husband.

"Of course not," Mr Parkinson said, frowning slightly in Draco's general direction.

Lucius nodded. "The four houses are the pillars of Hogwarts. Without one, it wouldn't be Hogwarts any more."

"For all that, I'm sending _my_ children to Durmstrang when it's time," Draco said. "If you think about it, Hogwarts is too insular. During the Triwizard Tournament, I heard quite a number of the people from other schools talking about how Hogwarts was just where the English wizarding folk found someone to marry."

He had heard no such thing, but it was always safer to express an opinion while pretending it was someone else's. That way even if it made someone angry, you could avoid reprisals -- shooting the messenger was never called for.

Mrs Parkinson harrumphed. "Foreigners are ever so bitter we maintain high living standards without asking for their input."

The conversation moved on to various cultural differences Lucius and Mr Parkinson had observed during their extensive travels, and the Parkinsons eventually left without ever having mentioned Pansy and Draco's engagement.

*

Draco sat with his back to the cool cellar wall, staring at the inside of the cell where Potter and his friends had once been. It had only been weeks, but it felt a generation ago.

 _"They say they've got Potter. Draco, come here."_

 _Draco rose from the armchair, obeying without a second thought, and approached as Greyback shoved his captive underneath the chandelier. It was Potter, all right, Stinging Jinx all over his face or no; his hair was longer, too, but Draco had watched Potter for too many years not to recognise him: the shape his shoulders made, the way he bent his left knee slightly when standing still, the way his fingers always looked on the verge of clenching into fists whenever he was threatened. Somehow, Greyback and his band of scoundrels managed to capture Potter. What was Draco to do? Would everything end here, today?_

 _"Well, Draco?" Lucius asked, in that avid, eager-to-please tone that Draco had come to detest so much since his return from Azkaban. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"_

 _Draco averted his eyes from Potter's disfigured face. "I can't -- I can't be sure." He didn't like lying to his father. No matter how undignified he had become since the Dark Lord had established residence at Malfoy Manor, he was still Draco's father and deserved his respect. But Draco didn't want to be the one to give Potter up. He did not think the Dark Lord would lose this war, but there remained a faint chance that he might. Draco had to think about the future._

 _"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!"_

When Draco was younger, he had thought that hearing his enemies scream in pain would be delightful, but he couldn't pass through the courtyard -- where he'd stood that night, listening to Granger's shrieks from within -- without his steps faltering, without expecting to wake up and still be standing amid the unconscious Snatchers he'd levitated out there. He had gone back inside soon after, only to be sent down to this very cellar.

Potter, a prisoner in Draco's home. He'd had to concentrate so hard on his wand arm not shaking as he'd walked into the cell. He had wanted to see Potter, but the only light in the cellar had come from his wand, and had to be quick about bringing the goblin, or Aunt Bellatrix would murder Granger. He'd said he would kill the prisoners if they tried anything, but that had been more to reassure himself than to threaten them. Aunt Bellatrix was right; Draco did not have the guts, though he preferred to think he simply saw no purpose in murder. Once someone who had displeased you was dead, there was nothing further you could do to them. Similarly, Draco had no taste for physical torture: the look of disappointment on an enemy's face when bested, by any means, would always be far sweeter than any amount of incoherent gibbering.

Draco didn't want his enemies to fear him because they feared death at his hands. _Everyone_ was afraid to die; being unpredictably violent was not difficult, and fear thus inspired wasn't much of an accomplishment. But when he'd suggested as much to his father a few months ago, he had received a wide-eyed, breathless lecture on never disrespecting the Dark Lord that way.

These days, everywhere he looked in the Manor, Draco saw his father cowering and cringing like a mangy cur whipped by its master for stealing a biscuit. He understood that his father had feared for Narcissa and Draco more so than for himself, but all the same, he no longer swelled with pride when looking at his father.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt relieved they were going to move. Perhaps in a new place without any ghosts or echoes, he could start to regain respect for his father. He didn't know who to be without that.

Draco got up from the floor, brushed off his robes, and left the cellar without looking back.

*

The cellar at the new place could never accommodate prisoners; there was barely any room to turn around for casks and bottles of elf-made wine.

The house was much smaller than the Wiltshire mansion, but Draco took to calling it Malfoy Manor anyway; he had been born and raised at Malfoy Manor. If it was home, then it was Malfoy Manor, no matter where in the world it happened to be. Narcissa had taken the opportunity to purchase all-new furniture, and within a week, the house-elves had the rest of the Malfoys' possessions moved to the new house.

They had left a lot more behind than furniture: clothing that hadn't been worn in more than two years, both rooms full of Draco's childhood toys -- all the ones he had abandoned after he'd discovered the sorts of toys that made him moan -- and comic books, several shelves of belles-lettres from before the first war, a variety of devices and contraptions that had been used once and then forgotten. It wasn't that there wasn't enough room; the new place was large enough, but these things were useless and old. Another reason to feel good to be a Malfoy and not the likes of Weasleys; if _that_ lot could ever afford a house in London, they'd probably take even their attic spiders with them, webs and all.

The new house did not have stables -- Unplottable location or not, winged horses would have been too conspicuous -- so Lucius had arranged for an enclosure at Dulwich. That was Draco's destination this afternoon; he would take a nice leisurely walk and spend some time with Winter, though he wouldn't be able to ride her at this time of day.

He pushed open one of the wide mahogany doors that led to the street -- a tree-lined Muggle thoroughfare busier than anything he had ever seen. Why, earlier that morning, the cars had been _standing still_. Draco had had half a mind to fly over and see why they were being held up, but there would be no flying whenever he liked, here. If he wished to chase the Snitch for a spell, he would have to go to a nearby park where the Ministry held approved Quidditch practice hours between certain times of the day, when a Disillusionment Charm covered the sky above the park.

But so far, to Draco's surprise, all these restrictions on things he used to take for granted in the countryside were the worst change. Perhaps he did not detest London as much he had thought. It might have been a case of self-fulfilling prophecy of a sort; he always told himself he hated London, so he kept thinking he hated it, when in reality he didn't mind it all that much. Indeed, he felt calmer here than he ever had during the past few weeks at the old Manor.

He stepped onto the pavement and all calm vanished as he spotted Potter across the street, staring at him. Draco stared back, searching for an explanation -- their new home was nowhere near enough the Ministry to warrant Potter's sudden appearance, so why was he there? As an Auror checking out the Malfoys' new living arrangements?

That didn't seem likely; Lucius was not required to notify the Ministry of the move for another fortnight, and he would certainly wait until the last moment to do that. Until the inquest, they could be spied upon at the leisure of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and part of Draco suspected that Lucius had chosen this time to move partly because the Manor was being watched. The elves had moved everything from Wiltshire to London using their own magic, and the Malfoys had ridden three of the Granians to Dulwich yesterday, just a little family out for some big-city entertainment. The Ministry was not yet supposed to know they were living here -- but there was Potter.

Seeing him called up the usual seething, confused, longing hatred in the pit of Draco's stomach; would that he could reach across the street and drag Potter towards him, demand an explanation, get a close-up look at his brilliantly green eyes, lock his arms round Potter's waist the way he had during their escape from the Fiendfyre in the Room of Hidden--

Draco turned sharply and walked away.

*

Draco's parents had dismissed the Potter sighting as a chance encounter and praised him for having walked off instead of going back inside the house, which would have been the natural thing to do -- and which would have probably brought Aurors to their door.

Draco, who had not told even his mother about his run-in with Potter before the Parkinsons' visit, had his doubts: what were the odds of running into Potter twice in as many weeks in a city this large?

He began to leave the house through the back garden, which was nice since it took him past the stone courtyard he rather fancied. A little gate hid in the sculpted shrubbery at the very back of the property; it opened onto a moss-edged desire path through a park that led to a square crammed with stalls selling everything from foul-smelling shoe polish to pockmarked fruit. As distasteful as Draco found the place, it was ideal for hiding.

After a few visits, he began to see a method in the chaos; soon enough he'd be able to lose himself in this crowd without losing his way at the same time. That was what usually happened to him at this market; more than once he'd resorted to fleeing into empty alleyways and Disapparating to the little gate near the new Manor.

Today, as he strolled past a large display of garishly painted wooden toy animals, he spotted a dusty old bookshop that gave him a nice feeling: with the parchment scrolls hanging in the window and stacks of weathered old tomes, it could have been a wizarding shop.

Anyway, Draco had been meaning to find out if he could purchase one of those little Muggle travel books in a bookshop; why should his father have all the fun? A bell tinkled softly overhead as he entered, enhancing the comfortable familiarity.

Then he saw Potter by one of the counters, frowning at an armload of weathered maps.

Raw panic laced through Draco, and he turned to flee, but too late: Potter lifted his head and saw him, eyes widening. He placed the maps on the counter and strode over to Draco with such an expression on his face that Draco didn't dare turn his back.

"Why are you following me?" Potter asked as he reached the shop entrance.

"I'm not following you," Draco said. "I had no idea you were in this shop, and I was just leaving."

"What would _you_ want in a Muggle bookshop, Malfoy?"

"It looked like a wizarding shop," Draco said. "Good day, Potter."

"I don't know what you're up to, Malfoy, but you'd better not try anything funny," Potter called after him.

*

After hearing of yet another Potter sighting so close to the Manor, Lucius and Narcissa had decided to notify the Ministry of their move. Potter was already suspicious; he might start asking questions, and the Ministry would in turn want to know why Lucius Malfoy wished to keep the family's move secret from the authorities. They didn't need that sort of headache, not now; the upcoming inquest may be just a formality, but even a hint of suspicious behaviour might turn it into something else entirely.

For his part, Draco decided to stop venturing out so often, but after four days cooped up in the new Manor, he was starting to lose the plot.

It was a big enough place that he could be alone whenever he liked, and he did enjoy the indoor swimming pool on the ground floor in lieu of flying practice, but he felt restless -- not as badly as he had at the old Manor, but nearly so. He wanted to be outside, learning the terrain, figuring out how to make his way in the city without bringing the Improper Use of Magic people down on his head. Somewhere deep, he felt like he was searching for something. A direction, perhaps, or maybe a beautiful pure-blood wizard with similar inclinations. If only Draco knew where to look for _him_.

At nights he dreamt of being lost in twisty mazes, Potter waiting around every corner, demanding to know why Draco was following him. "Haven't you done enough?" he would shout. "How many more of your friends have to die?" Sometimes Potter would turn into the Dark Lord, laughing with Aunt Bella's voice and telling Draco that he'd dreamt it all -- Potter's victory, the war's end, new Malfoy Manor -- and the Malfoys were trapped in a nightmare forever as punishment for their duplicity.

Draco couldn't handle it any more. When he went outside, the oppressive gloom in his mind lifted, and though he walked around without a purpose, it _felt_ as though he had one -- he wanted to explore. In a few months' time, after the novelty of London wore off, Draco would no longer find solace in these little forays, but for now it was the only thing he thought of as fun. He had avoided all his housemates since the war and planned to continue for as long as he could. He and Pansy were finished; Zabini would not let a moment go by without some play on "how the mighty have fallen", Nott had left the country, and he still couldn't bear to look at Goyle without hearing Crabbe's screams.

On the fifth day, he shouldered his broomstick, disguised as per regulations to look like a wide metal beam -- though Draco privately thought he might as well carry the broomstick; some of the Muggles he'd seen carried _animals_ in their purses with no one looking twice -- and headed to the nearby park where Quidditch was allowed. With luck, he wouldn't run into anyone he knew there -- especially not Potter.

He was standing next to a giant tree, waiting for the scheduled Disillusionment Charm, when his luck ran out. He glanced up from his pocket watch, which he'd been checking every thirty seconds or so, to find Potter standing in front of him, shoulders stiff, the rage in his eyes plain.

"I thought I told you to stop following me," Potter gritted out. He was holding a briefcase; bits of parchment stuck out of its sides, as haphazard as the hair on Potter's head. Draco stared at Potter's twisting mouth and wondered just how much trouble he'd be in if he just leaned forward for a little taste.

"What made you decide I'm following you? I'm just standing here," he muttered instead, averting his eyes. What was wrong with him? Even _thinking_ such a thing was a mistake. And here he'd been about to do it -- to cross the bridge from "suspected Death Eater activities" to "sexual assault on Harry Potter".

"You'd better quit it, Malfoy, or I'll have you arrested," Potter spat. Why was he still there? Shouldn't he have stalked off after saying such a thing? Shouldn't _Draco_ have been running home by now? But Potter still stood there, glaring at him, and Draco felt unwilling to move. He _liked_ it right there by that tree, and Potter couldn't do anything about it.

"Arrested for what, exactly?" Draco asked, lifting his chin and meeting Potter's eyes.

"Oh, I'll think of something," Potter said. "You stay the hell away from me."

He walked off, and then Draco heard the _crack_ of Apparition from deeper inside the park. This was no longer bordering on unbelievable: it _was_ unbelievable. Every time they'd met in this blasted city, Draco had been merely going about his business, not seeking to meet up with Potter -- no, even determined to avoid him at all costs. So why? Why was Potter there every time Draco felt like going someplace?

*

Draco's eighteenth birthday came and went, and he was still lonely, still unsure about his future, and, worst of all, still a virgin. He had always looked forward to the grand party he would have on the first birthday he celebrated after becoming a fully qualified wizard -- seventeen was all well and good, but everyone knew you weren't really an adult until you've _been_ an adult for some time. The possibility that said grand party would involve only a quiet bordering on solemn dinner with his parents had never even crossed his mind. Well, a lot of things Draco had never thought possible had happened over the past two years. Perhaps it was time he reassessed his opinions on the nature of reality.

The day after Draco's birthday, Lucius left for the continent. Unlike Draco, he had grand designs for the future -- estates, a vineyard or six, dance parties and social connections. All for Draco, of course, though Draco did not see what he would do with vineyards; he didn't even like wine all that much.

After seeing his father off from the fireplace -- they had connected the new house to the Floo Network after all -- Draco decided it was high time to pay Winter a visit. He hadn't seen her since he'd fled from the park after the last unfortunate Potter encounter four days ago, and even then they hadn't been able to go out riding; it was something called "rush hour" for the Muggles, and that meant there were loads of them about. How could _any_ creature whose species engaged in pointless en masse stomping about at predetermined times be considered more than an animal?

He came nearly nose-to-nose with Potter as he emerged from the Manor's anti-Muggle cloak, and lost his balance on the top step.

"What the fuck?" he spluttered, righting himself hastily

Potter grabbed his forearms and brought their faces close together. "I _warned_ you, Malfoy--"

"Let go of me, you prick, I _live_ here!" Draco growled. "Can't a wizard walk out of his house without being beset by four-eyed apes like you? Who's following whom, I wonder!"

Potter took a hesitant step back, releasing his hold on Draco. "You live here? In London? Since when?"

"Since a month ago if you must know," Draco replied, rubbing his left forearm. How could someone as scrawny as Potter have such an iron grip? "What the hell are _you_ doing in front of my house?" He gestured at it.

"I was on my way somewhere," Potter said, looking somewhat abashed. "I didn't know you lived here."

"Well, that much is obvious. Tell me, Potter, why is it that an awfully large number of your errands take you through the neighbourhood where I happen to be living?"

"Are you suggesting _I'm_ following you?"

"In a word, yes," Draco said, folding his arms. "Because I'm certainly not following _you_."

Potter smirked. "So that day near the Ministry's visitor entrance, you just happened to be passing by? Or were you visiting some of your dad's old chums at the Ministry? I can find out, you know."

"I was going to find out about the location for NEWTs," Draco lied. "It's not my fault you decided to show up at the same time. It's not my fault you keep showing up everywhere I bloody go!"

Potter rolled his eyes. "Listen, Malfoy, as far as I'm concerned, you don't even exist. I don't care where you go, what you do, or who you do it with. As long as you don't get involved with Dark magic, I don't give a damn. You're nothing to me."

And Draco didn't know what to say. Ever since his and Potter's rivalry had begun, he had feared that the scrawny little boy with the ugly glasses, the scrawny famous boy who could have been Draco's friend, this tall boy whose every feature was carved into Draco's heart would grow up and decide Draco was not worth his time.

Draco had always been a bully; had _known_ he was a bully: he didn't think most bullies walked around unaware of what they were. Being that way made him feel strong, important, powerful -- and as long as his targets reacted to him, he came out on top, because their reactions, whatever they were, proved that his existence was important to them. Even if he died, they wouldn't forget him. So he had thought, at least, until the Dark Lord returned: until then, Draco had hardly spared a thought for what it felt like to be a target.

And now, here stood Potter, telling him that despite years of bitter antagonism, despite the pure lust seething in Draco's gut at the faintest of Potter's gestures, despite Draco having _mattered_ enough for Potter to risk his life in Fiendfyre for him -- he was of no consequence. It was enough to make Draco want to fall through a pit in the earth and never come back up. He had never felt such shame -- he had done so much, worked so hard to make this forever unreachable boy take notice of him, and all of it had been for nothing.

He didn't know how much of his dismay showed on his face, but it must have been enough, for Potter's expression softened -- softened! -- and he looked about to say something, but Draco didn't want to hear a pitying scrap of bland-faced kindness. He stepped backwards through the Manor's protective charm. Potter did not vanish, of course; Draco could still see him, but at least Potter couldn't see Draco. The knot in his throat that had choked off his voice dissolved in a sob, but though Draco's eyes burned and his chest ached, he would not cry.

*

A few days after the confrontation, Draco sat in the stands of the wizarding track at Dulwich, watching as his favourite -- number seven, Pearly Frisson -- easily outpaced all the other horses by at least fifty feet. The rhythm of his powerful wings as they split the air was music without sound: it was simply perfect, never wavering, the sunlight shimmering around the feathers a nimbus of pure joy.

He had looked forward to the race since he'd seen the flyers for it while visiting Winter right after she'd moved into the enclosure here, so he'd convinced himself to leave the house just for a little while. Plus, now that Potter knew where Draco lived, he'd surely avoid the area if he really wasn't following him. So he was safe.

 _Safe._ As the thought crossed his mind, he glanced into the stands below, just to make sure, and saw Potter standing in one of the rows, staring now at the Granians, now into the crowd, craning his neck. He looked lost. Slowly, Draco pulled the cowl of his summer cloak up over his head and tried to make himself as small as possible in the cramped little seat -- he thanked all that was good and holy for not having purchased the more expensive ticket nearer the track barriers. If he had been down there, Potter would have seen him first.

But _how_ could Potter know Draco was here? Draco could see no other reason for him to show up here, but he hadn't even told his _mother_ he'd be going to the race; he hadn't even mentioned going to see Winter when leaving the Manor. And why would Potter claim he wasn't following Draco when he clearly was?

There was nothing for it now except to do what had _always_ worked whenever Draco found himself in a situation with no way out: run to his mother.

*

"But Draco, dear, I don't understand why Potter would be coming after you," Narcissa said after Draco had told her everything. "It's not as though we've got anything to hide, not any more -- and you're the least guilty of all, really. And why on earth don't you want your father to know about this?"

Draco shrugged. "He'd just make things worse. He'd see this as a-- I dunno, as an opportunity, something to use to our advantage somehow. I just want Potter to keep away from me, but he insists I'm the one following him around. Except I'm not!" He slammed a fist on the sofa's arm rest so hard, the coffee table rattled.

Narcissa covered Draco's white-knuckled fist with her hand. She had always been described as cold by people who didn't know her, but his mother's hands were the warmest Draco had ever known. "Well, if you do not wish to be near Potter and he does not wish to be near you, then perhaps a third party wishes the opposite."

Draco hadn't even thought of a possible third person being involved. "Who, though? Who would want me and Potter to keep running into each other? To what end?"

"Someone who thinks these meetings will eventually provoke Potter into using his authority against you?"

"Oh." It really did help to have someone without such a high emotional investment in Potter to help him reason his way out of this. But who disliked him enough to do such a thing for a laugh? For surely that had to be it -- there was no other advantage to grinding Draco's nose even deeper in the dirt when he already knelt, face to floor, in wait of punishment. Metaphorically speaking.

One of Potter's gang? The lot of them certainly hated him enough to do just about anything, but he hated them right back, so they couldn't possibly know where Draco went, not with such precision. Someone from Draco's side? But he hadn't spoken to any of his housemates in weeks; most of them wouldn't have even known he'd moved until the central Owl Post Office rerouted their birthday greetings. It had to be someone intimately familiar with Draco's movements and someone who had Potter's willing ear, except such a person did not exist.

"I can't think of anyone," he complained.

"Perhaps you should arrange to meet and compare notes," Narcissa suggested.

"With Potter? Forget it. He'd just accuse me of trying to follow him around."

An owl landed outside the window and tapped on the glass with its beak. Narcissa crossed the drawing room to admit it and retrieved the small roll of parchment tied to its leg.

"It's addressed to you," she said, proffering it as she returned to the sofa.

 _Malfoy,_

 _I know you were at the Granian race today. I saw your name on the list of spectators Winkus Harkiss showed me. I didn't know why I was there. I was trying to Apparate somewhere else, but I ended up where you were. Something strange is going on and we need to talk about it. Meet me outside the Cadogan Arms in Chelsea at seven tonight._

 _Harry Potter._

*

For all the time Draco had taken with his appearance before showing up at the meeting place, he was fifteen minutes early. He could have spent that time playing at Wizard's Chess with his mother, but he'd been too anxious to be of any use at strategy. That _never_ happened; it wasn't supposed to happen, not to Draco. He had always been so good at keeping his feelings out of sight and mind, but it seemed that when it came to Potter, especially lately, all of his defences failed if tested even a smidgen.

And why had he spent so much time making sure he looked good? Potter hadn't asked to see him because he wanted to see Draco's face; he probably thought Draco knew something about their many meetings. Hell, he probably suspected Draco was causing this somehow. Still, Draco checked and re-checked his reflection in the mirrored surface inside his pocket watch cover. As the minutes passed, he kept glancing at the doors to the tavern, wondering if he should go in and wait for Potter there, but he didn't think he could pass for a Muggle on his own. He assumed Muggles did the same things in pubs as normal people, but who knew? Maybe they had special food rituals, like those primitive Asian wizarding folk, eating with sticks.

The way he'd carried on getting ready, he had expected to be a complete wreck by the time Potter arrived, but he grew calmer as the time neared seven. His heartbeat slowed, blood no longer rushed to his face in copious amounts at every thought of seeing Potter again, and his hands stopped trembling. He didn't understand it -- no more than he understood getting so keyed up in the first place -- but he supposed his mind had finally prevailed in the invisible battle for his consciousness and he was going to be able to speak to Potter without choking on his words or stammering.

Potter appeared from the west; he walked unhurriedly towards Draco, just another young Muggle lad off to meet a mate for a bit of nosh. Draco eyed Potter's faded jeans and well-worn trainers, wondering if his suit was going to be out of place in this Cadogan Arms. There was no helping it: if he had to wear Muggle clothes, he was not going to wear _common_ things. And yet those common clothes made Potter look good enough to eat. Draco expected to blush at the thought, but he didn't. The closer Potter got, the calmer Draco felt. It made no fucking sense.

"Malfoy."

"Potter. Shall we?" Draco started for the pub doors, but Potter shook his head.

"We're not on a date. Come on."

He tugged on Draco's sleeve and headed in the direction he'd come from, past the pub and into a small children's playground ringed by trees; nothing but a swing set and a couple of wooden benches smoothed to a dull glow by many a parental backside. Draco contemplated sitting down, but he didn't want to relax. Potter's remark about this not being a date had rattled him -- was he that obvious? And yet, he did not _feel_ properly rattled. He felt as though nothing would ever hurt again.

"I've got something to ask you, and I want you to answer honestly," Potter said, turning to face him.

 _Have I been fantasising about having all sorts of sex with you since before my first real erection? Why yes, Mr Potter, sir, guilty as charged._

"All right," Draco said, trying not to laugh. Here he was with Potter, having every sort of inappropriate thought in the world cross his mind, and Potter had _no idea_.

"What's so funny?" Potter asked, frowning. "Are you going to answer honestly or not?"

"I will," Draco said, stifling a smirk. He was _happy_. That strange calm, the urge to laugh inappropriately, the feeling of invincibility -- for the first time in months, maybe years, he felt happy. And Potter was almost certainly the cause of it, though fucked if Draco understood why or how.

"I--" Potter began, then frowned down at his hands. "I feel really weird."

"Like you could mount the world and smack its backside and tell it to go, and it bloody well would?"

Potter's face cleared. "That's a way of putting it. But that's not the point. I want to know: were you told by anyone to be at all those places we ran into each other? Or if not told, asked?"

Draco shook his head. "No. Each time I went because I wanted to go. I was just talking to my mother about having seen you at the race, and she thinks a third person is involved in this."

"Yeah," Potter said, his expression once again grim. "But not the way you think. Come on."

He took Draco's hand, and Draco recoiled -- warm, so warm, warmer than his mother's hands, and so _perfect_ it sent a shock up his spine, causing his heart to start pounding again, all calm gone. Potter just yanked Draco's hand back down impatiently. "Stay still."

"Where--"

"My place. Hermione needs to see us both."

The press of Apparition took him, and moments later -- which meant they had been close to Potter's place to begin with -- he stood in front of a row of identical-looking houses made of dark bricks.

Draco followed Potter up the steps and through the heavy door to Number Twelve. As he proceeded along a long corridor towards the sound of women's laughter somewhere deeper in the building, he got the oddest feeling. "Why do I feel like I've been here before?" he muttered, half to himself, but Potter turned around.

"This house used to belong to your mum's aunt and uncle. You've probably been here as a child."

Draco had known about Potter inheriting the house, heard it from that old half-mad elf Kreacher -- it made him seethe even now to remember how distraught his mother had been over the whole affair -- but he hadn't thought Potter would actually _keep_ it. "Didn't think you'd still be living here."

"Haven't got anywhere else," Potter said as they rounded the corner. "Hermione, I've brought him."

The laughter died, and Draco was greeted by identical icy stares from Ron and Ginny Weasley as he walked into the room. The two of them occupied what looked like misshapen sacks of flour, Ron bouncing a delightedly squeaking purple Pygmy Puff off his palm, Ginny leafing through Witch Weekly. Granger sat on the sofa, a book in her lap as usual, but she would not meet Draco's eyes.

"Sorry about your party," Draco said, stepping out of the doorway and leaning against the wall next to a picture frame. From here he could see a set of robes splayed across the back of the sofa and a lonely sock peeking out from under an end table. Harry Potter and the Domestic Bliss.

"Did Harry tell you why you're here?" Granger asked, still not looking at Draco.

Draco considered thinking of something cutting to say, but thought better of it. Guest or not, he was badly outnumbered. "No," he said.

She did look up at him then, with a slight hint of surprise in her eyes. As if she'd been expecting a cutting remark. "We think you've been cursed, both of you."

"No, we know for sure," Potter said, settling next to her on the sofa. "I wouldn't have brought him here otherwise. Can you do the thing?"

Granger nodded, lifting her wand arm. Draco instinctively reached for his own wand, but she gave him such a look that he subsided. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's a simple detection charm, I'm sure you're familiar with them."

She pointed her wand at Potter, murmuring an incantation under her breath, and thousands of thread-thin golden rays of light sprang forth from Potter's skin and clothes: so many there must have been one for every hair on his body; they obscured him from sight, flowing out in a column, and then turned sharply in mid-air towards Draco, who realised with astonishment that a mass of silver-coloured rays were coming out of him. At the midpoint between Draco and Potter, the rays were entwined, thousands of thicker threads, like a rolled-up rug so threadbare you could see through it.

"There," Granger said. "And if I keep the spell going, you'll see they're getting stronger."

"Maybe we should've split up to do this," Ginny said, rising a little to have a closer look at the knotting threads. "Won't it go even faster if they're in the same room?"

"Shouldn't," Granger said, though she didn't look certain. "Plus I couldn't have used the spell on both of them if I couldn't see them at the same time."

"Can someone please explain what the hell is going on?" Draco complained. "What are these things?"

"Spirit threads," Granger said, extinguishing the detection spell and allowing Draco to see the rest of the room again. She pointed her wand at Ron, and a mass of silver-coloured rays materialised around him, but they were not fused to anything; they just sort of hung about him, wavering lazily like tentacles. "That's what they're supposed to do, but yours and Harry's are trying to fuse together."

"What the ever-loving fuck for?" Draco exploded. "I don't want to be spiritually fused together with Potter!"

"Believe me, the feeling is more than mutual," Potter snapped.

"More importantly, why the hell are my spirit threads the same colour as Malfoy's?" Ron demanded, trying in vain to grab one of his for a closer inspection.

"Pure-blood," Ginny said. "Mine'll be the same."

Draco considered remarking that Granger's must be the colour of mud, then, but refrained. The others were off their guard, but there were still three of them.

Granger made Ron's spirit threads vanish and set her wand aside as her shoulders slumped. "There you have it."

"Now what do we do?" Potter asked. "Can you work out who cast it?"

Granger shook her head, grim-faced. "The bond would break if the caster died, but other than waiting for it to break and reading the obituaries right after, I'm afraid there's no way we can trace the curse to its origin."

"Surely there must be some way of at least identifying the sort of wand that was used to do it," Ginny murmured. "If we asked Mr Ollivander...?"

"I'm telling you Malfoy did it. Just beat it out of him and have done," Ron said, casting a glare in Draco's direction."

"I did no such thing," Draco said, indignant but relieved that at least _someone_ remembered he was still there. "I want to keep _away_ from Potter. This does the opposite."

"As for the wand type," Granger said to Ginny as though Draco hadn't spoken, "this sort of spell can be equally effective with any core."

"But what's it going to do?" Potter asked, slumping backwards against the sofa cushion. "So far it's made us run into each other about once a week. If that's all, let's just leave it alone."

"It's not once a week, though," Ginny said. "Hermione worked it out -- the time interval between meetings is shrinking, and remember how you ended up at that Granian race instead of at the Burrow?"

"Yeah," Granger chimed in. "I don't know what it will do in the end; there's just not enough information. But it is intensifying, and that might be because they keep meeting. So to be safe, we should try and keep the two of them apart."

Potter stretched, arching his back so his hips stuck out, his arms leaning over the top of the sofa, and Draco's heartbeat sped up so quickly he forgot to be annoyed they were ignoring him. "But how are we going to avoid running into each other when we keep running into each other without meaning to?"

"Could try mobiles." Granger suggested after a pause.

"Baby toys hanging from the ceiling?" Draco asked derisively. " _That's_ your brilliant solution?"

"I suppose it might help them sleep better," Ron put in, looking as perplexed as Draco felt.

"She means mobile phones," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, you're worse than Dad."

"Yeah like Malfoy would use Muggle technology," Potter said.

"If it'll keep you away from me, I'll do anything," Draco shot back.

This time Potter turned around to fix him with a glare. "Fine! It'll be a right laugh, since you won't even be able to turn it on!"

"Actually, two-way pagers would be a better idea," Granger cut in. "In case hearing each other's voices makes the bond tighten faster. Dad says pagers are dreadful cheap now that everyone's getting mobiles."

Draco had no idea what a pager looked like, but he imagined it had something to do with flinging paper in some way, considering the name. Maybe it was a stack of blank parchment that they were to write on, then fold into cranes and enchant them to fly to the other person. Advanced Muggle technology indeed.

"Why can't we just use owl post?" he demanded. "An owl will find its addressee _anywhere_ if the central Owl Post Office is notified."

"Yeah, and a fat lot of good it will do Harry if your owl about your next destination reaches him just as you bump into each other. Think a little sometime, would you?" Ginny snapped.

In the end, they agreed that Granger would obtain the devices and send one to Draco along with the Galleon value for his share of the expense, and Draco would transfer the money to Potter via Gringotts.

Draco left Number Twelve Grimmauld Place determined to find out just what sort of bonding curse this was: Granger may think herself smart all she wanted, but she didn't have the Hogwarts library at her disposal any more, and Draco was willing to bet that the Malfoy collection on curses and counter-curses outdid anything Granger could lay her hands on. He would find out not only the curse's name, but its counter-spell _and_ a way to learn the caster's identity. Nothing was impossible with magic. And so what if he had to use a Dark counter-curse to be rid of this nuisance? He would be doing it to reverse a Dark curse on Potter, so Potter ought to be grateful.

But when he got home, Draco found he could not concentrate on anything for longer than a few minutes without lifting his head and gazing to the north, where Potter lived. Where Potter _was_. Had they made a mistake spending those twenty minutes or so in close proximity? Would it make the bond so strong they could both only sit and stare in each other's directions, unable to do anything else? The very thought was horrifying.

Though he usually slept soundly, that night he lay awake for hours, his eyes coming open against his will. He wanted to get up and go outside, to walk -- north. He had a nasty feeling that if he tried to Apparate anywhere in this state, he'd end up at Potter's doorstep, just as Potter had ended up at Dulwich earlier. He couldn't see his spirit threads, but he knew they were there, linking him to Potter, and Draco wondered if Potter was awake now, too, gazing southward. Only after he flipped his bed so that his feet pointed to the north could he finally find some rest.

*

As instructed by Potter's merry band of rescuers, Draco did not leave the Manor until Granger's package arrived the next day. The so-called pager was a hefty little rectangle made out of a strange smooth wood, or perhaps metal. It opened like Draco's pocket watch, revealing a grey blank surface rimmed by that same strange black material in the top part, and a jumble of buttons labelled with letters, all mixed up instead of in proper alphabetical order. In the bottom right corner beneath the grey surface was what Draco assumed was the device's name: PageWriter 2000. PageWriter? Muggles had no creativity.

Draco tried commanding it to send a message to Potter, both with his wand and without, but to no avail. Finally he fished out the page of Granger's instructions enclosed in the package. They were written as though for the benefit of a mentally deficient five-year-old, but at least they seemed to work. He managed to turn the device on -- scoring a mental victory against Potter -- and followed the utterly senseless instructions: enter a bunch of numbers, press a funny little bent arrow, then push the letter buttons one at a time to compose a message -- `this is a test. draco malfoy` \-- then several arrows until the device told him his message had been sent.

A few minutes later, the contraption beeped, startling him, and he followed some more instructions to read the reply: `Good job, maybe you're not totally hopeless. From now on I'll tell you where I'm going. You do the same. Don't come near me. HP`

Draco shoved the infernal thing into his pocket, seething at Potter's implication that Draco might've _wanted_ to go near him in any case, and dispatched one of the family owls to Gringotts with instructions to transfer twenty-five Galleons into Potter's vault. Then he went back to the library to get back to finding a counter-curse. He hauled several armloads of books to a reading chair and turned it northwards -- luckily, both Potter's house and his workplace were north of here, so as long as he was aware of Potter's whereabouts, he could avoid his head trying to spin around like a dummy's.

It was no use, though: Draco couldn't focus no matter which direction he faced; he just wanted to keep moving towards Potter. He didn't even need the stupid paging machine to tell him where Potter was; his own body was managing it famously. As the hours wore on, he felt colder despite sweating like a diseased dragon; his skin was clammy no matter where he touched it.

`i have fallen ill. i shall not be leaving the manor for a few days. go where you like and stop this thing beeping at me. draco malfoy`

There had to be a bloody way to get this thing to produce capital letters and punctuation besides the full stop, but Draco was in no state to try and figure it out. On the third day, he became unable to keep food down, and Narcissa, whose questions he'd been fending off with increasing desperation -- he did not want her to know about the bond, no matter what -- finally demanded they go to St. Mungo's.

"Mother, I'm fine. It's just a little cold, that's all. Nothing a little Pepper-Up Potion won't fix," Draco said. He had not left the bed yet that morning; he was afraid that if he got to his feet, they would just drag him to Potter.

"Don't be silly, Draco. I think I know when my child is seriously ill, thank you. Get dressed and meet me by the fireplace in ten minutes. You're in no state to Apparate."

That was truer than she knew, and Draco acquiesced if only to placate her.

`dont go near mungos`, he sent to Potter. After a few moments' consideration, he pocketed the pager instead of leaving it in his bedside cabinet, just in case his mother decided to take him somewhere else after St. Mungo's.

As they waited at the reception desk of St. Mungo's, Draco realised he felt better. Of course: this was closer to Potter than he had been in days. The Healers -- predictably -- found nothing wrong, and who could blame them? They weren't going to look for Dark magic if they weren't told it was a concern, and Draco certainly was not about to tell them. Narcissa was not allowed in the examination room since Draco was an adult, and he was grateful for that. If she started telling them that just minutes ago he'd been shaking where he stood, they might've decided on a more thorough set of procedures. As it was, they gave him a flask of extra-strength sleeping draught and told him to come back if he felt worse.

He walked out to his mother and waved the flask at her cheerfully. "Not even a cold. I've just not been sleeping enough."

Narcissa pursed her lips. "Draco, you sleep for ten hours every day."

Draco shrugged. "I guess that's not enough. Let's go home."

But the minute they stepped out of the fireplace in the Manor's drawing room, Draco lost his footing and collapsed. His legs _were_ trying to take him to Potter. As he struggled up onto his elbows, the pager fell out of his pocket and rolled to Narcissa's feet.

"What is this?" she asked, picking it up. Then her face twisted with distaste. "Draco, is this a _Muggle_ machine?"

Draco bowed his head. On all fours as he was, he imagined he must have looked like a particularly dejected Granian, except he had no magnificent wings to spirit him away. Or a tail. "It's not what you think," he muttered. He had to tell her. He couldn't have his mother believe that he was trying to be friendly with Muggles for any reason. He just wouldn't be able to bear such a suspicion, not from her. "It's Potter."

" _Harry Potter_ is forcing you to use a Muggle machine? Unbelievable. I knew something was wrong when you wouldn’t tell me what you two had talked about, but he's bullying you somehow, isn't he?"

"Mother, calm down," Draco said. He had given up on trying to stand and instead flipped over to sit on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest with both arms so he could keep his legs from twitching. "He's not bullying me." He told her a condensed version of meeting at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, speaking through chattering teeth and hugging his knees closer and closer.

"Well, if the only way you'll get better is by being next to Harry Potter, then that's where you'll have to be until this is undone!"

"No!" Draco cried. "No, don't make me; I can't do that, Mother." He kept a tight hold on his knees with his left arm while fishing the sleeping draught flask out of his pocket. "I'll just drink this and sleep; I'll feel better after I've slept."

His mother's expression softened. "All right, darling. Go on and drink it."

*

He opened his eyes in an unfamiliar room and cursed inwardly. He had thought he had got used to the new Manor, but even now, sometimes he would stare up at the ceiling of his bedroom expecting to see the shadow-boughs of the weeping willow outside his window, but that had been in Wiltshire. At least he was no longer shaking or sweating; perhaps the sleeping draught had helped.

He sat up and froze, realising that he was not in _his_ bed. It was much smaller and twice as hard. Plus, his bed stood in the centre of his bedroom so that he could approach it from whatever side he liked. This bed was tucked up against a wall on his left, and there was a window behind him; he could feel a breeze on the back of his head. This was not his bedroom. He looked to his right and saw Potter sitting on another bed with his back against the opposite wall, his legs spread, elbows resting on drawn-up knees.

"What--"

"How am I to know Draco won't be harmed?" his mother's raised voice floated to him from beyond the wall. She sounded panicked.

"And how would we know Harry won't be harmed?" Granger all but screamed. "Last time I was in your house, your sister _tortured_ me!"

All blood drained from Draco's face. He stared at Potter, understanding what must have happened -- his mother had let him take the sleeping draught and then hauled him just where he'd said he hadn't wanted to go.

The silence beyond the wall stretched on. Draco could not imagine his mother's face. To think that Granger had the absolute gall to raise her filthy Mudblood voice at Narcissa Mal--

"Miss Granger, I am really very sorry for what was done to you under my roof."

Draco he waited for the "but", for any indication that the apology was simply a formality, but it didn't come. His mother had _apologised_ to a Mudblood. Sincerely.

Draco noticed Potter watching him, eyes dark and full of loathing, and looked down at the cheap cotton sheet that covered him. He was wearing pyjamas, and for some reason that struck him as deliciously funny, though he couldn't laugh: his face had gone slack. His mother had just become a blood traitor. By offering Granger an apology, Narcissa Malfoy had acknowledged her as an equal.

"Maybe it would be better if they were both at St Mungo's," Granger spoke finally, and Draco wished he could have seen through the wall. Had she accepted a noble pure-blood lady's apology with a mere _nod_? How _dare_ she?

"I can't do that," Narcissa said. "Now that I know this is the result of Dark magic, I cannot risk Draco being implicated even by association. We've got the inquest coming up, and my family is working quite hard to make a clean break with our past. I will consent to Draco remaining here until a counter-curse is found as long as I may visit him when I wish."

"That's fine," Granger said in awkward tones.

"Oi, don't I get a say in this?" Potter hollered.

"No!" came the voices of Granger, Ginny, and -- to Draco's eternal astonishment -- Narcissa.

"Hermione and Ginny are angry because I wouldn't ask you to come over when I became too ill to walk," Potter said.

"Why are we in the same room?" Draco asked, uncomfortable at Potter's conspiratorial tone. "Isn't it enough that we're in the same house?" He felt fine -- better than fine. His brain was no longer fogged, his memories no longer hazy, his legs staying just where he put them, his hands steady, his vision clear.

"Hermione thought it would be best," Potter said. "I guess."

Draco gave him an incredulous look. "You guess?"

"I wasn't conscious when they put me in here, was I? Why do you always have to be a prat?"

"Um, Potter, I hate to break it to you, but we don't like each other. I'm not happy to be here so of course I'm not going to be on my best behaviour. How is this a surprise to you?"

"It's not," Potter muttered. "You're actually quite personable when you're out cold with your face to the wall, did you know?"

"Yes, I'm sure I feel the same about you," Draco bit back.

"Yeah, well you'll get to find out," Potter said, grimacing. "Hermione thinks we won't be able to be apart for more than a few hours at a time now."

"What? That's insane! What if it gets so bad I can't take a piss on my own?" Draco blurted without thinking and instantly flushed.

Potter blinked at him. "What's the big deal? It's not like either of us is a girl."

"Some things ought to be private!" Draco snapped. "How do you suppose you'll fuck Weasley, with me in the room?"

"Me and Ron aren't like that, you sick fuck."

"I meant _Ginny_ Weasley, obviously. Your girlfriend?"

Potter gave a one-armed shrug. "That's none of your business."

"And my toilet visits are none of yours!" Draco hissed, glaring.

The door opened, and Narcissa, Ginny, and Granger walked in.

"Draco, I'm going to return home," Narcissa said. "I've got a few inquiries to make about this sort of magic -- discreetly, of course -- and I may be able to help find out how it works. Miss Granger thinks she can prepare a potion that'll keep the effects at bay."

"That's great news," Potter said. "I'd be able to go back to work."

"Problem is, you might have to take it for the rest of your life, mate," Ron put in, looming in the doorway behind the three women.

"I just don't understand why anyone would do such a thing," Narcissa said. "Perhaps the inquest--?"

"How does us being chained together like this help anyone with the inquest?" Draco muttered. "We've got no one but ourselves to speak for, and Potter isn't even considered a witness since he's got a vested interest. He couldn't help our case even if he tried."

"Vested interest?" Granger asked.

"Yeah," Potter said, clearly, uncomfortable. "Mrs Malfoy saved my life, so they said I'd be too partial."

"All right, but I think this is an interesting angle," Ginny says, plucking a quill from behind her ear. "Maybe it's someone completely unrelated to the family, thinking that if Harry could be made sympathetic--"

"Wait, wait," Draco cut in. "What would happen if one of us died? To the other, I mean."

"I can't be sure, but I am guessing they'd go mad," Hermione said. "Janus Thickey Ward mad."

Draco had no idea what that meant, but from the long faces on the rest of them, he gathered it was awful. "So what if that's the plan?"

"You mean someone's targeting Harry?" Ginny asked.

"Or Draco," Narcissa added.

"Fine, someone's targeting either one of them. But for what? Why not just attempt to kill him, why the bond?"

"Some people can be pretty twisted," Ron said.

"Even Voldemort wasn't that twisted," Potter objected. "Who would want to kill Malfoy and watch me go insane as a result?"

"Or vice versa," Narcissa said.

"Right."

"That'd be someone who hates us both," Draco said. And then he had it. "Mother, do you think that Pansy might--"

"Pansy? Impossible. She's a clever girl, but this sort of magic is far beyond her ability."

"Why would Parkinson want to harm _you_?" Ron asked. "Isn't she your girlfriend?"

"No," Draco said. Ron looked nonplussed.

"The timing just doesn't work," Narcissa said. "Even if she were furious enough to do something like this, she'd need time to learn the spell."

"Yeah, and the only time I saw her after breaking off the engagement was about an hour _after_ Potter and I first ran into each other at random."

"That's a good point, though," Potter said. "The spirit threads started to pull about a week after the battle, which means the spell must've been cast at Hogwarts."

"Or finished," Hermione said. "Dark bonding spells don't require both parties to be present at the same time -- you can cast it on one and then on the other at any time."

"Great," Draco said. "Considering that Hogwarts was practically a showcase of Who's Who in the Wizarding World that day, anyone could've done it."

*

They tried sleeping in separate rooms, but the bond had become too strong; it seemed that they had to be within each other's line of sight more often than not. Not knowing how the bond worked was frustrating, and no matter how much Draco stared at the spirit-threads using the detection charm Granger had taught him, he couldn't work out why they kept knitting together like that. What had originally looked like a rolled-up old rug now resembled an ever-tightening, intricate knot.

At least Draco was still able to visit the bathroom by himself; it took up to an hour before the bond began to pull them towards each other again.

Sleeping in the same room with Potter was worse than he'd imagined; there was nothing between them but a few feet of empty space, and Draco's fantasies of crossing that space were growing frantic. The first night, Potter had fallen asleep on top of the coverlet, and as he tossed about for the first hour, his pyjama bottoms slid a quarter of the way down his bottom, exposing far more than Draco had ever hoped to see. Potter lay there, a moonlight shadow of a tree across his back, the moonlight itself pooling at the base of his spine, throwing the top of his naked arse in relief. Draco wanted so desperately to get closer and touch Potter there, just to know what it felt like, just to steal himself a little secret. But he was too afraid.

He supposed he should have been happy -- he'd have interesting new wank fantasies for months if this kept up -- but it only made him remember how badly he wanted to have sex for pleasure, not out of duty, and how impossible it was for Potter to be part of that. And in their current situation, though he was out of his mother's eye, Draco couldn't exactly go looking for night-time entertainment.

It was hard to believe that just a month ago he was sure he'd never see Potter again except in the papers, and yet here he was, breathing the same air and getting to watch Potter change clothes whenever he liked. He never stared, of course; he would pretend to be reading one of Granger's books on curses or gazing out of the window, but the corner of his eye registered everything. Potter didn't seem the least bit concerned with Draco's presence -- they _were_ both male, after all; what was a little too much exposed skin between a couple of straight blokes?

He knew now that Potter was likely to put his t-shirts on backwards, that he put his left leg first into trousers and pyjama bottoms, the same way he favoured it when standing, even though he was right-handed. He always yanked the collar of his robes to the right before arranging them, and he always put his socks on last and took them off first. When undressing, he would throw his clothes wherever at first, and then, once changed, he'd pick them up and put them away, though never too neatly.

Did Ginny Weasley notice these things about her boyfriend, or was she only interested in the end result, either way, dressing or undressing? Was this kind of obsessive attention to detail normal when you fancied someone? Not that Draco fancied Potter. He just wanted to have sex with Potter; that wasn't the same thing.

It didn't help that Ginny wasn't coming round too often; Draco could understand it was probably no fun for her to spend time with her boyfriend in front of an unwanted -- and unwilling, thank you very much -- witness, but at the rate he was going, he would be grateful for any reminder of just where he and Potter stood. Spending so much time in the same space, even though they barely spoke to each other, even though Potter barely _looked_ at him, was making Draco think he was soon going to do something very, very stupid.

And he couldn't afford to spend his time mooning about, either; NEWTs were going to start soon, and the inquest loomed. It would raise a great many uncomfortable questions if Draco and Potter turned up together at these events. But there had been no good news from his mother, and Granger hadn't turned up anything, either. People at Potter's work were asking questions about his prolonged illness. He had tried going in, hoping to last at least a few hours, but the Head Auror had sent him back after seeing the state Potter got into when Draco wasn't nearby for too long.

And so Draco started trying to spend time away from Potter as much as he could, for as long as he could until he began to feel dizzy and had to half-stumble back to wherever Potter was. When he got tired of reading about bonding curses and their various ancient applications, he peeked into cupboards, dug through the mountain of bric-a-brac in the attic, tried to walk through the corridors without triggering any of the squeaky floorboards. He even tried to engage several of his ancestors in conversation, though they were all too cross at their portraits having been torn down and heaped in the corner of a spare bedroom like unwanted toys.

One night, he came across what must have been Regulus Black's bedroom back when this house belonged to its rightful pure-blood owners. Draco stood and stared at the painting of the Black family crest -- one made long before he was born -- ringed by _Daily Prophet_ clippings about the Dark Lord, trying to imagine what it must have been like in those days. He didn't wonder why Potter had left this room alone; everyone knew the story of just how and why Regulus Black had met his end. He couldn't imagine himself doing something like that -- going against the Dark Lord directly, all because of a house-elf. Draco would have simply let the wretched thing die. What kind of person befriended inferior creatures?

 _The kind of person Potter would respect._

But Draco didn't want Potter's respect; he never had. He just wanted to _matter_ to Potter.

"What are you doing here?" Potter asked, appearing in the doorway.

"Thinking about my cousin," he said, nodding at the tapestry portrait. "Such a sad, insignificant end."

Potter glowered. "Regulus Black was a hero."

"Because he defied the Dark Lord by stealing some stupid necklace? Give me a break, Potter. I'll call you a hero first."

"You don't know anything," Potter said, but his glare had vanished. He was looking at Draco as one might regard a homeless, hungry animal. "I bet you wouldn't want to know even if I told you."

"Know what?" Draco called. "Answer me!"

But Potter had walked away.

Later that night, as he listened to Potter get undressed for bed -- not watching this time; he would not watch; it drove him crazy -- Draco asked, "What won't you tell me about Regulus? Was that bauble he stole really so important?"

"Go to sleep, Malfoy."

Draco sat up and twisted round to face him. "He was my family. I've got a right to know."

Potter tossed his pyjama top on the bed and sat down heavily. "Maybe you've got a right, I dunno anything about stuff like that, but I'm not allowed to talk about the details. Voldemort did something horrible, and that necklace had to do with that. We stopped it, but if it hadn't been for Regulus, we never could have. Just like if it hadn't been for Snape and your mum. And you, I guess, since you didn't tell them it was me when the Snatchers got us, though it was really Bellatrix spotting the Sword of Gryffindor that saved us."

"Right. So if I drop dead, will you tell your kids I was a hero, too?"

"No," Potter said, looking up at him with distaste. "Everything you did was because you lacked the courage to do what was right in the first place. If you had let Dumbledore help you--"

"My parents would be dead," Draco said. "The Dark Lord said he'd kill them if I failed."

"But you did fail," Potter said, his voice almost gentle. "You didn't kill Dumbledore."

"That was because Snape did it first!" Draco protested. "I would have done it. For my parents, I--"

"That doesn't matter," Potter interrupted. "The point is, Voldemort didn't kill your parents even though you failed. He needed them alive, because if he started murdering his most loyal followers, others might've started having second thoughts just like Regulus had. How could he expect the pure-blood families to follow him if he started killing every pure-blood who displeased him? It's not like there are that many of you lot in the first place. Most of the wizarding world's half-blood."

Draco shook his head silently. What Potter was saying made sense, but Potter hadn't been the one who had to watch his mother scream in pain on the floor of her own drawing room. No, Potter had been spared having to watch his mother suffer, so he could never understand how Draco felt.

"You ever heard that saying, that a chain's only as strong as its weakest link?" Potter went on. "Voldemort was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He knew that if he let too many links weaken, his little group would scatter, and alone, he would have failed. He didn't even have a _body_ at first, did you know? It was your dad and his mates who gave him back his human form."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Draco murmured. "You weren't there. You didn't see how easily he killed people. Those he didn't kill, he tortured. Dolohov--"

"Is alive," Potter said. "And Rowle, too. Don't you see? Hermione was tortured, too, but she's alive and -- uh, I can't say she's _well_ , but she'll get better. Voldemort was never going to kill your parents."

"He was too. He was," Draco insisted. "You don't understand him at all."

"I understood Voldemort far better than you think," Potter said, dragging the back of his hand across the scar on his forehead. "But if it makes you feel better about what you did, I'm not going to argue. Good night, Malfoy."

It was not a good night for Draco.

*

"Malfoy? Wake up. Oi, Malfoy?"

Draco opened his eyes and sprang back in horror at the face of Ron Weasley looming above him in the shadowed room. After his restless night, he had not had the energy to leave the bed in the morning, so he had spent the whole day in and out of consciousness, trying not to think about what Potter had said, trying not to think about all the different ways things might've turned out for the better -- he hated self-doubt, _hated_ to second-guess his decisions. It did not good: what was the point of thinking about how the past might've been different? It wouldn't change. Why did Potter have so much power over him? He was just a half-blood upstart without a proper upbringing who thought he was so great--

"Malfoy!"

"WHAT?"

"Hermione thinks you should be included in a discussion about the bond curse, so they've sent me up here to tell you that."

"I take it _you_ don't think I need to participate in such a discussion, do you?" Draco said, swinging off the bed. "Is my mother here?"

"She can't make it; says there's Ministry people at your house making sure you really did leave all those Dark magic objects behind."

Draco seethed. His mother, alone in the Manor, having to put up with the indignity of boorish Ministry types pawing through their things. One day, he would put all of this right. One day. "Fine. I'll be right there."

He found the four of them in the drawing room just as they had been on the first day he'd seen the spirit threads last week, though Ginny was playing with the Pygmy Puff now, and Ron was flipping through Witch-- no, that was a Quidditch magazine. Draco didn't approach them; like the first time, he leaned against the wall by the door and waited.

"You can come and sit down," Potter called, turning to look at him. "We won't bite."

Draco was _not_ going to come when called, like some dog. "It's all right," he said, stuffing his resentment beneath bland politeness. "I prefer to stand, thanks."

Granger opened her mouth, then promptly shut it and turned to Ginny. "Are you sure?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Sure about what?" Potter asked.

"It's something I found," Granger said. "According to _Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes_ , these spirit thread-tightening bonding spells were primarily used in arranged marriages to make the parties more amenable to each other by forcing them to spend time together. It says that most were undone when the couple would, well. Willingly consummate the relationship."

"You mean have sex," Draco said flatly. He couldn't believe he was hearing this.

"WHAT?" Ron yelled, turning instantly purple. "I mean, fine, if Harry was into blokes, but _Hermione_ , that's just--"

"Just what?" Ginny said with exasperation. "Don't you think it's up to Harry to decide if he wants to go that far?"

"Well, what about you?" Ron demanded. "He's your _boyfriend_ , isn't he?" He jabbed a thumb in the general direction of Potter, who sat there staring at Granger with the widest eyes Draco had ever seen.

"It's not like he'd be doing it behind my back if I know about it--"

"HEY!" Draco yelled. "I hate to interrupt you all falling all over yourselves at the prospect of me and Potter going at it like a couple of Puffskeins, but I believe Granger had used the word "willingly" to refer to _both_ parties. And I'm not willing. End of discussion."

He practically _flew_ upstairs to the safety of his bed, hiding his face in the pillow to cool it. Of all the things to happen. Of _all_ the things to happen to him in this wretched house. Oh, whoever did this to him was going to pay. Draco would find the caster if it was the last thing he did in his life, and he would dismember him slowly.

He had spent years fantasising about having sex with Harry Potter in all sorts of ways, in all sorts of circumstances. What was wrong with this circumstance? And then, as the answer loomed in his mind, Draco learned something new about himself.

Sure, he had always wanted to have sex with Potter; that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Draco had wanted to have sex with Potter when Potter _wanted_ it. Wanted _him_. He could have caught Potter unawares at Hogwarts at any time, fed him a potion, had his way, wiped Potter's memories, and everyone would've lived happily ever after. But he wanted Potter to want him. He didn't want to have sex with Potter because Potter needed it to undo a spell. Not even this spell. He didn't want to have sex with _anyone_ under false pretences.

He hadn't even had sex with anyone yet, but he thought that when you were naked, when you let another person see you at your weakest, that was no time for lies. Maybe it was even the only time to be honest.

Draco was going to be a profound disappointment to his parents, after all.

*

"Malfoy, are you asleep?"

Draco did not budge. He didn't want to deal with Potter. He had no doubt Potter would have rejected Granger's half-baked idea just as vehemently if only Draco had stayed behind to listen, and he really didn't want to participate in a self-pity party for two.

He listened as Potter prepared for bed, marvelling at how familiar these sounds were to him by now. There went the water in the bathroom and the soft whir of Potter's Everlasting Toothbrush; honestly, only kids used those things. Next, the shower. Draco would always brush his teeth right before getting into bed, and he had never even considered that someone else might do it differently. Perhaps there were even people who brushed their teeth while in the shower, who knew?

The pipe running through Draco's wall made that thin noise it always did when Potter got in the shower: he liked it scalding hot and incredibly quick; Draco had often wondered how Potter managed to clean himself thoroughly in just ten minutes. Draco's showers took at least a half hour. He remembered lying here one of the first nights in this house -- just last week but a whole perspective shift ago -- thinking about using magic to peek at Potter in the shower, to see how he moved, what he looked like wet and naked, fat drops of water so hot it steamed rolling down the backs of his thighs--

 _Shit._ He really ought to know better by now than think of Potter naked in the shower, oughtn't he? For all that he wanted sex on his own terms, he still wanted Potter just as much as before; he didn't think that was going to change.

The water shut off, and Draco shifted so his cock would point at the wall instead of up. Now he really had to think of things other than Potter towelling off in there. He would walk out, towel slung low about his hips, and fish his pyjamas out from under his pillow: another childlike habit Draco found at the same time embarrassing and endearing; perhaps the only thing about Harry Potter that was sort of cute.

"Malfoy?"

Draco did not move.

"I know you're not sleeping. You breathe differently when you sleep."

"So I'm ignoring you," Draco muttered. "Can't you just leave it?"

"Look, I just want you to know that it was never going to be just my decision. The others didn't mean it like that, either. They just got caught up in the moment."

"Thank you, Potter, but I'm perfectly aware that you are not the sort to force a person into having sex with you. It would shatter your wholesome image to smithereens. Good night."

That night Potter didn't drop off for a long time. He fussed with his bedding and sighed and tossed and kept fluffing his pillow so violently it sounded like he was beating the shit out of it.

Draco wondered what had got Potter so keyed up. Maybe he'd had a row with Ginny. Yeah, that was probably it. He'd probably wanted to know why she acted so blasé about Potter having sex with someone else, she'd probably become defensive, and it must've got worse from there. Great. Potter was going to become even more insufferable, at least until the two of them kissed and made up.

But Ginny came over the next day, and she and Potter were just as disgusting as ever, so there went Draco's theory. Well, even Saint Harry Potter must have a conscience; perhaps there were times he, too, lay awake at night thinking about things that he could've done differently. Granger did not mention sex again, and Draco went back to ignoring the lot of them as he always did.

Narcissa came and brought him more stuff -- clothes, toiletries, more textbooks for NEWT preparation, letters from his father, Goyle, and Zabini, and enough sweet cakes to last him for weeks. He had never known how to break it to her that he'd lost his sweet tooth sometime after fourth year. It was a good thing he knew loads of charms that kept food fresh.

A few days after Granger's scandalous suggestion, Draco sat on his bed, enjoying the breeze from the outside, trying to figure out where his practice Arithmancy calculation had gone so wrong as to cause six tsunamis instead of charting a Muggle-free path for a medium-sized ship from Kerch to Zonguldak. Potter walked in, probably to grab his broomstick to go into the yard with his Weasleys. Draco acknowledged him with a glance and went back to his problem.

But Potter didn't leave. "Hey, remember what Hermione said a few days ago?" he asked, taking a seat on his own bed.

"Granger talks a lot; I'm afraid I don't memorise everything she says," Draco said, looking up at Potter with irritation.

"I mean the whole have-sex-to-break-the-bond-thing, obviously," Potter muttered, colouring and hiding his eyes.

Draco slid the bookmark into the textbook and closed it, setting it aside. "Yes, I'm afraid I do remember that. I've been trying to forget, but you've just gone and reminded me."

"Look, do you-- shit, do you want to maybe try?"

Draco's jaw unhinged. "Are you insane?"

Potter glanced at him sideways. "I thought you said you'd do anything to get rid of the curse."

"Not this. Besides, it's not _willing_ if we're only doing it to get rid of the spell. I'm pretty sure a curse would protect itself against that kind of thing."

"I'm glad you're not having a fit at least," Potter said.

"And why would I have a fit?"

Potter shrugged. "I dunno, you seemed pretty angry when Hermione brought it up. I thought maybe you had a problem with gays, too."

Draco wanted to laugh, but if he did, he was sure Potter would _know_. And he wasn't ready for anyone to know. Not yet. Potter wouldn't even be on the "need-to-know" list in any case. He said nothing, just looking at Potter, who seemed awfully interested in the little flowers on his bedcovering all of a sudden.

"Why are you bringing this up?" Draco finally asked. "I thought we already agreed it wasn't up for discussion."

"Yeah," Potter said. "I just. I, uh, I guess I was thinking about it. You know, us. Doing it. Touching, and-- it, oh forget it. I'm going to bed." He took off his glasses and started to tug at his t-shirt, but it wouldn't come off because he was trying to do it one-handed.

"You're going to bed at six o'clock in the evening," Draco remarked.

"Nap," Potter said, emerging victorious from the Battle of the T-shirt. "Naps are healthy."

He turned his back to Draco and pulled the covers over his head. Then, just as abruptly, he sat up and jammed his glasses back onto his nose. "Haven't you ever wondered about it? What it would be like, with a bloke?"

Draco blinked. "I-- maybe? Potter, what are you saying?" Was this actually happening?

"I'm saying that I've been wondering about it, since Hermione brought it up. And, well, I thought maybe you've wondered to. Now, or before. And if you did, then maybe we could try it."

Draco's heart began to pound even heavier. "To break the curse, or to see if we like it?"

"Both," Potter said. "I mean, this wouldn't be happening at all if it weren't for the curse, right? But it is happening, so maybe--"

"Wait, let me see if I understand correctly," Draco said. He needed to make sure he wasn't just suffering from a bad case of wishful hearing. "One: Granger brings up the two of us having sex to break the curse. Two: it makes you wonder if you could even do it with a bloke. Right?"

"Right, exactly, so--"

"Wait. Three: you hadn't thought about doing it with a bloke before. Right?"

"Right. It just didn't occur to me. I've always been into girls."

"Four: now that you have thought about it, maybe fantasised a bit, you kind of don't hate the idea. Right?"

"Yeah. Malfoy, if you're going to fucking mock me, just get on with it, don't drag this out. You're not exactly the person I would ever have this sort of conversation with." Potter took his glasses off again and began to fiddle with them.

Draco waved him off. "Five: since you don't hate the idea, you start thinking it could be sort of interesting to try it, especially if there's a side benefit of the curse lifting. Still right?"

"Yeah." Potter set the glasses aside and scrubbed his face with both palms, making it even redder. "Why can't you just answer me?"

"Because I want to know what you want," Draco said. "So what if I've thought about it? So what if the curse might lift? There's nothing stopping you from doing your experimenting with another bloke, is there?"

"Well, yeah, there kind of is," Potter objected, gesturing around the room. "I can't be away from you for much longer than an hour at a time, and it's getting worse, in case you haven't noticed."

"But basically, given the choice between me and another bloke, you wouldn't touch me with a Nimbus 2000, Potter, isn't that right?"

"No! Jesus, Malfoy, what do you take me for? It's you I've been thinking about, that's why. That's why, if you want, I'm saying we could try it."

 _It's you I've been thinking about_. The words bounced around in Draco's suddenly empty skull, and it felt like somewhere out there, someone great and powerful was laughing at him. He'd spent all those hours tossing and turning and coming up with all the reasons why he'd never have sex with Potter, most especially because Potter had to want him -- _him_ , Draco, and not just a warm body. And now here was Potter, declaring that yes, indeed, he wanted Draco.

"I'm not saying I fancy you or anything," Potter said quickly as he took in Draco's no doubt slack-jawed expression. "I still think you're a prat."

"Don't worry," Draco said dryly. "If I thought you had just confessed to me, I'd be carrying you to St. Mungo's on my back."

"You're not laughing, though."

"Such observational skills," Draco murmured. "What about your girlfriend? I was under the impression she's okay with this only because it would be to break the curse."

"Ginny doesn't think sex is a big deal," Potter said. "She thinks it's fun, like Quidditch. So it wouldn't bother her as long as there's no kissing."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you think about sex, too?"

Potter shrugged. "I'm working on it."

"For her sake?"

"Yeah, so?" Potter sprang to his feet and stared down at him. "I'm asking you if you want to have sex with me. Can't you just give me an answer and hold the psychoanalysis?"

"The what?"

"Never mind, you wouldn't know. Well?"

"Yeah," Draco said, looking at Potter's hands, clenching and unclenching at his sides. He glanced up into Potter's face. "I mean, things couldn't possibly get any _worse_ , so let's give it a go."

Potter just stood there, his hands frozen into fists. For a dark, horrible moment, Draco expected Potter's friends to burst into the room, laughing. But no, that was a prank _Draco_ would pull. This was Harry Potter.

"Were you joking?" he asked anyway.

He must have sounded as anxious as he felt, because Potter's eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently. "I just wasn't expecting you to agree."

"Well, I wasn't, either, but you can't have everything going as expected," Draco said.

Potter smirked. "Did you know that sometimes you sound exactly like Snape?"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Draco said, loosening the collar of his robes with shaking fingers. He had opted for robes that morning but not for underpants, so he would be naked in seconds. Was he really going to go through with this? "I'm not really sure how to get started without kissing. I always thought that was sort of a natural lead-in."

Never mind that he had no real clue how to get started in the first place; fantasies were not exactly good practice. But Potter had no clue, either, and that would help. Probably. He hoped Potter wouldn't be able to tell that Draco had no experience at all. He pulled his robes off, and the pleasant breeze he'd been enjoying before stung his skin, cool enough for goose pimples.

"So," Potter said, staring at Draco's front. One of his arms stretched across his naked chest as though protecting himself.

Thank goodness Draco's cock didn't seem to have clued in to what was about to happen; it would have been a bit tricky to explain if he'd sported a hard-on of the sort thoughts of sex with Potter usually gave him. But Potter staring at his cock like that was making Draco flustered, so he stepped forward and began undoing the top button on Potter's jeans; it was much tougher than the suit trouser buttons Draco was accustomed to.

Potter stood very still for a moment, and then he reached around Draco and put both hands on his arse, pulling him forward hesitantly. This was the part where they were supposed to be kissing, and Draco wasn't sure what to do besides undo Potter's zip and start pushing his jeans down. The pants came off, too; Potter's cock tumbled out, not hard but not soft, either, and it was a pleasant thought that just touching Draco's arse might've done that. Draco stepped closer as Potter's jeans slid to the floor, head bowed so his forehead pressed against Potter's chest. His heart raced wildly, but so did Potter's; he could feel it thumping against Potter's ribcage like a frantic beast in a trap.

Draco stared down at the gap between their lower bodies, knowing that if he didn't do _something_ , in a moment, Potter would notice that Draco was hard already, and that was just too embarrassing. So he reached for Potter's cock and rubbed the head between his fingers, heat searing through him at both that and Potter's hands tightening on his arse. He squeezed Potter's cock a little bit harder and began to stroke it properly, trying to think of ways to avoid meeting Potter's eyes ever again. Was it always this mortifying or just the first time? Potter's cock grew heavier, denser, and Draco almost pulled back in shock when Potter made a funny sound and tilted his hips upwards, and then one of his hands let go of Draco's arse and fumbled to his front to curl round Draco's cock.

He had always supposed that someone else's touch felt better than his own, but he'd had no clue just how much better. The pleasant warmth suffusing his lower belly _blazed_ at Potter's touch, scorching a path through Draco's cock all the way to his balls, and he might've made a sound even funnier than Potter's earlier one, but he couldn't be sure. He turned his head to the side because he couldn't _look_ ; it felt too good, and then Potter's lips were on his neck, his tongue a soft firebrand against Draco's skin.

"I thought you said no kissing," Draco said, all in a breath, and a shiver went through him as Potter lifted his mouth from his neck.

"I meant kissing on the mouth," Potter whispered, his breath hot across the wetness on Draco's skin. "You don't like it?"

"I do like it," Draco said, wetting his lips. The only part of Potter he could reach comfortably with his mouth was the left shoulder, and that struck him as too strange a place to lick, especially when he'd rather have Potter's neck, or--

He let go of Potter's cock and pushed him backwards, causing him to sit on Potter's bed, still rumpled from his earlier attempt at napping. Potter's hand wavered but stayed on Draco's cock, now level with his face, and Draco blushed as he shifted sideways and removed Potter's hand as he knelt on the floor, forcing Potter's legs farther apart, and leaned over to lick the inside of Potter's thigh. It wasn't a perfect recreation of a much-cherished fantasy -- in that one, Potter sat on top of the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Hidden Things and wore his robes, which kept falling over Draco's head, making them both laugh -- but it was close enough, and Potter's scent was strongest here, making Draco a little light-headed. He bit softly into Potter's thigh, and Potter twitched forward with a low groan that Draco was sure would reverberate through his mind forever.

He curled his fingers round Potter's cock again and licked a wider path along Potter's thigh, right along a cord of muscle that tightened beneath his tongue, sending a fresh thrill through Draco. He had forgotten how embarrassed he had been just moments ago; he had never imagined that a simple thing like this could make him feel so powerful. He kept kissing Potter's thigh, moving closer and closer to the groin, his insides aflame with how it made Potter writhe, but when he went for Potter's cock, Potter gripped his hair with both fists and kept him still.

"No, no, don't," Potter rasped. "Don't. I'll come."

Draco glared up at him. "That's kind of the general idea."

"No, I don't want to yet. Malfoy, please, just keep… your hand… yeah, just there."

Their eyes met, and a chill of embarrassment jolted Draco. How ridiculous he must've looked, slavering all over Potter's thigh like a very confused carnivore, with his bare arse in the air and his cock aching to be touched again. He wanted so badly to retreat to his bed and beg Potter to pretend this had never happened. But he finally had Potter in his hands, and he didn't want to let go. He had continued to stroke Potter even as his face burned, but it didn't feel the same; a few more moments and he would really be too ashamed to continue. Why couldn't this go as smoothly as it did in his fantasies? Why did Potter's gaze mess with his brain so much he could barely think?

Potter put his hand on top of Draco's and prised it away from his cock. "When I said I wanted to have sex with you, I didn't mean I wanted you to do everything," he said, leaning over and hauling Draco up from the floor by his armpits and down onto the bed, falling backwards so Draco ended up on top of him, his cock pressed into the juncture between Potter's thigh and groin, their mouths a breath apart. Draco wanted to kiss him, but couldn't bear the thought of being refused, so he turned aside first, but before he could decide what to do next, Potter's hands were on his back, his mouth on Draco's neck again, and Potter was rocking up against him with far more enthusiasm than Draco would have expected from a straight bloke.

He rolled sideways, pulling Potter with him, and took both of their erections in hand, sucking in a breath at the new, perfect sensation. Potter's free hand came down on top of his, squeezing from the other side as Draco's hand wasn't large enough to fully encircle them both, and Draco arced his neck beneath Potter's mouth and bit his lip to keep from crying out. The heat of Potter's body, the smooth feel of his cock pressed tightly against Potter's, the scent of their sweat -- none of these things had ever appeared in his fantasies, which had been purely visual, and he didn't think any fantasy from then on would ever compare to this. Potter's teeth scored Draco's collarbone, and Draco did cry out then, but not from pain.

The wet tip of Potter's cock bumped against Draco's belly; Potter _hissed_ and began thrusting faster into their entwined hands, and Draco pressed his free hand into the small of Potter's back so he could feel as much of those movements as possible. Potter jerked forward with a startled gasp, then shuddered, and Draco didn't even realise what had happened until their chests came into contact again and he felt the slide of Potter's come against his skin. Potter lifted his head from Draco's shoulder and opened his eyes with a smile so sweet, something inside Draco broke forever.

It scared him so badly that he scrambled away, his cock still so hard it was flush against his belly, off the bed, and into the bathroom, slamming the door and leaning on it with all his weight. He heard Potter's footfalls racing across the floor outside. "Malfoy, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Draco said, fighting tears -- of frustration, or anger, or joy; he couldn't quite tell. "You didn't hurt me."

He stayed there long after his cock had given him up as a bad job and flopped back down, long after his balls stopped aching, long after Potter stopped coming up to the door to ask if Draco really was all right. He didn't know why he'd been so badly frightened. Maybe Potter and his friends were right; maybe Draco was nothing more than a coward, always scared of everything, even his own feelings.

When he finally emerged from the bathroom after hastily scrubbing congealed come from his chest, Potter was asleep. He was still naked, his arms splayed out as he snored softly. A wad of tissues lay on the floor by his right hand; he must've got tired of waiting and cleaned up with those.

Averting his eyes, Draco put his pyjamas on and slid into his own bed, but sleep eluded him. He lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling and wondering what would happen now. Even if the bond _had_ broken--

Draco sat up and found his robes where they'd fallen last evening, fishing out his wand to cast the detection spell, but his and Potter's spirit threads were still fused in the middle of the room.

"Well that was a spectacular failure," he remarked.

To his horror, Potter turned towards him and propped his head up on his elbow. "I wouldn't go that far," he said.

"I meant the bond, stupid," Draco said, unable to meet his eyes. He had no idea how people _ever_ looked at each other again after, well. After. Especially if one of them had run off and locked himself in the bathroom. "So we don't need to say anything about it to Granger, right?"

""I suppose not," Potter said.

"We don't need to say anything about it to each other, either," Draco added after a moment. "All right?"

"Was it really that awful for you?"

"That's not really the problem here," Draco mumbled.

"Fine," Potter said. "We can pretend it didn't happen."

Yeah, like Draco was ever going to be able to do that. But it was good enough. It would have to be. He fell asleep after that for just long enough to clear his head.

Ron came round at lunch time and brought pizza; for a wonder, he even told Draco to join the two of them in the kitchen if he wanted. The pizza was nothing like the real thing Draco had eaten in Italy five summers ago, but it was food, and it gave him an excuse to hang around. He was terrified that the minute he left Potter alone with anyone, Potter would tell.

He kept sneaking glances at Potter, half-dreading and half-hoping to catch him glancing back, but Potter seemed more interested in Ron's dramatic retelling of his so-called job interview at his brother's joke shop. He had seemed almost friendly earlier, but ever since saying they would pretend nothing happened, he'd been avoidant if not outright hostile.

Ginny stopped by later in the afternoon, and Draco returned to his Arithmancy problems. The mistake he'd spent so long trying to find the previous day was suddenly plain; Draco fixed it and continued working through the rest of the exercises, though only with half a mind. Some time later, he heard Potter and Ginny coming up the steps, but they continued down the corridor to the master bedroom, and Draco's heart clenched. Potter probably didn't even feel guilty: what happened last night hadn't meant anything to him beyond satisfying casual curiosity. Draco supposed it would be like this with any straight bloke he ever fancied.

Not that he fancied Potter. And he certainly wasn't going to sit there feeling jealous of a Weasley. And the immense relief when the pair of them went back downstairs almost moments later had nothing to do with anything.

He wished that what they'd done had erased the bond. Sure, that would have meant Granger and the rest finding out, but at least he could be at home, comfortable and safe and far away from Potter. He skipped supper, gave up on studying around eight, and was already showered and in bed when Potter came upstairs. Draco pulled his covers over his head -- even _that_ made him think of Potter; he'd done the same last night -- and tried to breathe deeply as he listened to the sounds of Potter's nightly routine. He just had to keep his distance until a counter-curse was found. That was all.

 _Beep!_ went Draco's pager, which he'd thrown next to the bed ages ago and forgotten about. Why was the bloody thing beeping? He picked it up and saw that he had a message, so he pushed the little arrow buttons and numbers until he remembered how to get it to work.

`Let's do it again. HP`

"What are you playing at?" Draco demanded, turning round to look at Potter, whose back was to him.

"You said not to talk about it," Potter muttered. "So I wrote you a message."

"Are you twelve?" The content of the message caught up to Draco, and he forgot how to breathe for a moment. "What do you mean, again? It didn't _work_." He was willing Potter to tell him that wasn't why he wanted to do it. What was _wrong_ with him?

He heard movement, and before he could do anything else, Potter straddled him. "I don't care if it works or not," he said. "I've spent all day thinking about things I wanted to do to you."

Draco's face felt hot enough to cook a three-course meal on. "I'm not a toy," he croaked, but his cock apparently thought otherwise; the band of his pyjama bottoms was already cutting into it. "And you've got a girlfriend."

Potter winced. "I know," he said, and Draco wasn't sure if Potter meant him not being a toy or Ginny. "And yet."

"You must be some sort of glutton for punishment," Draco said. "Go back to bed, Potter; this is pointless."

Potter bowed his head and sighed. "I know," he said again. "But will you at least tell me why you ran off like that?"

"I thought we agreed we weren't going to talk about it."

"If it was anything I did--"

"It was nothing you did. Truly." Draco sat up, pushing Potter away. "But I'd appreciate it if you didn't presume too far. Just because I was willing to do it once with you doesn't mean you get to manhandle me however you like."

What was he _doing?_ Here was Potter, saying he wanted Draco, not backing down even at the mention of his girlfriend, and Draco was _rejecting_ him?

"You're lying," Potter said, glowering. "I did do something wrong; why can't you tell me? You were as into it one moment as I was, and then you just ran. I dunno, is it some stupid pure-blood thing; did my filthy half-blood come make you feel too dirty to go on?"

"Yes, that was _exactly_ it; you've got your answer, now get _off_ me!"

"No," Potter said, settling down across Draco's thighs. "Not until you explain."

"You're going to sit on me until I do as you say."

"Exactly."

"You _must_ be twelve." Draco considered lying back down. He would just go to sleep. Difficult as it was to ignore Potter's weight on his legs, he would manage somehow, and then Potter would have to give up.

 _When you're naked, when you let another person see you at your weakest, that is no time for lies. Maybe it's even the only time to be honest._

Draco bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut to avoid looking at Potter's expectant face. When he was thinking that, he hadn't meant _Potter_. Had he? Even if he hadn't, what would going to sleep accomplish? Potter would just continue pestering him until Draco gave him an answer to his satisfaction. What could Draco tell him that would keep him away?

The answer was so obvious that Draco almost burst out laughing. Of course. All he had to do was follow through on his own promise to himself and tell Potter the truth. Potter would never come near him again after hearing it. He opened his eyes and got a good look at Potter in the semi-darkness of the room, so he could forever remember this moment.

He half wanted to witness Potter's reaction, but there was a limit to how honest he was willing to be with himself. Seeing Potter's earnest, almost eager expression change to profound revulsion? Draco didn't think he could handle that, not from him.

He lowered his eyes. "I'm gay," he said, so quiet it was nearly a whisper. "Last night was my first time."

He waited for Potter's surprised little "oh", waited for him to quietly withdraw to his side of the room, waited to be left alone with the stifling tightness in his chest, alone with his fear and his shame. But Potter lifted Draco's face with both hands and leaned in for a kiss so slow and deep and sweet, Draco's thoughts fled for a few moments during which he could only return the kiss, the lust he'd tamped down on surging back through him, making him hotter than he'd ever felt.

In another reality, he might have ignored his rational brain's frantic warnings; part of him wanted to ignore them, to keep on kissing like this and seeing where it led; being kissed by Potter made his fears retreat and his deeply felt shame shrink to mere apprehension. Potter was kissing him even though he'd promised his girlfriend he wouldn't; he was _cheating_ on Ginny, and that made Draco feel so very important to Potter -- just what he'd wanted, what he'd always yearned for.

But his rational brain's direst warning was right: he wasn't really important. Potter simply felt sorry for the sad little gay bloke who didn't even get a kiss for his first time. And Ginny would understand that such a kiss didn't mean a damned thing. Because she, like Potter, like the whole lot of their do-gooder gang, was kind.

He wanted to break the kiss, to push against Potter's chest to keep him from leaning in again, to beg him to stop being kind because they were enemies, they would always be enemies, and there was no kindness between enemies. But it felt so good: Potter's tongue against his, Potter's warm hands on his face, Potter's heartbeat beneath his fingertips. This would never happen again, and what was Draco's pride worth if he had what he'd longed for in his hands, only to throw it away out of some misguided sense of fairness to his own delusions?

So Draco slid his arms around Potter, clasping them across Potter's back, pulling him down and wrapping his freed legs around Potter's waist, moaning as Potter's hard cock pressed against his belly, rocking upwards and clenching his legs to feel even closer, forgetting to breathe, the last shreds of his composure shattering to pieces as Potter began to move against him. He knew what he wanted, what he'd wanted all along, and if Potter was going to give it to him, Draco would take it and fucking love it.

He pushed sideways against Potter until he managed to flip them over so that Draco was on top, and he pulled Potter's pyjama bottoms down, shoved his legs apart roughly, and sucked in the head of his cock without even looking at Potter once. Potter's shocked little gasp was gratifying, and Draco wished he knew more about doing this, wished he were so skilled he could make Potter come with just a few well-placed licks, but he couldn't, and he didn't want to accidentally hurt him, so he stuck to the head, moving his tongue frantically all over it, sucking at it now lightly, now harder, earning little mewls of pleasure from Potter, who had his hands on Draco's head again but wasn't trying to stop him this time.

He fumbled under the bed for the toiletry bag his mother had brought not knowing that Draco kept a small bottle of lube labelled "hair conditioner" in the cabinet at home; he had thought it funny when he'd found the bottle in there at first. He fished it out by touch, popped the top open and spilled it everywhere as he clumsily tugged his pyjama bottoms down a bit with the bottle in hand, reaching to the back and smearing the lube all over himself, in himself, wincing in pain from the awkward angle of his trembling fingers. It was difficult to concentrate on Potter's cock at the same time, so Draco just lapped at it blindly, barely able to steady it with his free hand, but Potter didn't seem to mind; his fingertips dug into Draco's scalp almost to the point of pain.

"You'll make me come," Potter breathed, clutching at Draco's hair again like yesterday, and Draco stopped, but only to squeeze the last of the lube over Potter's cock, using his hand to smooth it all over, and then he pulled Potter back on top of himself, lifting his legs up. Potter leaned down heavily to kiss him, and the pyjama bottoms still stuck halfway down Draco's thighs _ripped_.

"In-- put it in me," Draco begged him then, and Potter didn't hesitate; he steadied himself with one arm as he used the other to guide his cock into Draco. He was no stranger to this, but the real thing felt so much better than a hard rubber toy: hot, unyielding, opening him wide without any hope of stopping, because Draco didn't control it, and that made it so much more exciting.

Halfway in, Potter lowered his mouth to Draco's and whispered, "It won't fit; it's too tight -- I'll--"

Draco lifted his legs a little higher. "Keep going," he said, and Potter did, his eyes screwed tightly shut, panting, until he was all in; Draco could feel Potter's heartbeat _inside_ as they both stilled. Draco lowered his pelvis a fraction and raised it again; Potter's eyes flew open with shock, and he _growled_ , tightened his hold on Draco's arse, and started to move, his mouth coming down on Draco's with so much force Draco's teeth stung, and Draco moaned louder than he ever had in his life; Potter fucking him felt exactly, _exactly_ as good as Draco had always thought it would. Quick, relentless, agonising; Potter's kisses were almost bites; he gasped into Draco's mouth and fucked him harder with every breath. Draco shoved both of his hands down to his own cock and clasped them around it; he came almost as soon as the pressure registered, crying out loud enough for half of London to hear him, his vision blurring, all of him burning.

"Fuck, oh, fuck, so good," Potter mumbled; he'd given up on kissing; his forehead was pressed into the pillow as he came inside Draco, groaning, his fingers surely gouging marks into Draco's arse cheeks. He pulled out slowly and fell over next to Draco, covered in sweat and panting. Eyes still closed, Potter found one of Draco's hands beside him and squeezed it, then pulled Draco in, kissing the side of his mouth, stroking his hair.

Draco knew it would've been better to retreat to the bathroom, put some space between them right off so it didn't hurt as much when Potter realised what they'd done and began to feel guilty, but he couldn't do it. He was too spent, too weary, too happy. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but the next thing he knew, he was blinking through dry eyes as the birds outside the window argued about whatever it was they didn't like so early in the morning. Potter was asleep next to him, lying on his side, one hand tucked under the pillow, his other arm across Draco's waist, heavy and still so very warm.

The sheets were a mess; Draco's chest was sticky with his come, his thighs sticky with Potter's come that had leaked out of him. He wanted a shower. He never wanted to be clean again. Wincing at the twinges in his lower back, Draco reached up blindly to the bedside cabinet for his wand. First, he'd levitate Potter to his own bed. His hand bumped against the cabinet, and his wand flew to the floor with an almost mocking clatter, startling Potter awake.

"What time is it?" he asked, peering at Draco through half-closed eyes.

"Dunno," Draco said. Looking into Potter's eyes was somehow easier today than it had been after the first time, but it was still embarrassing enough to make him blush. "Around six, maybe seven." He leaned over to pick his wand up and cast the detection charm. The knot their spirit threads made had become so massive it engulfed both of them, close as they were. Draco killed the charm and put his wand away.

Potter flipped over onto his back, leaving Draco very little room as the bed was not meant for two, and put his forearm over his eyes. "I've got to tell Ginny," he said after a long pause.

"Why?" Draco murmured. "You just saw it yourself. It didn't do anything. We can stop this and forget about it."

"That's the problem," Potter said, looking over at Draco from beneath his forearm. His eyes were sad. "I don't want to stop. I don't want to forget about it. Do you?"

Draco clenched his teeth, wishing he could find a way to lie without breaking the promise he'd made to himself. "No."

They discovered their new problem when Potter got up to go and take a piss. He was halfway to the door when Draco's heart began beating so loudly he could _hear_ it, and Potter collapsed to his knees, gasping for air.

It turned out they couldn't go farther than about four feet from each other, which made for an interesting morning as Draco's direst fears about bathroom visits had come true -- though it seemed a bit silly to be squeamish about hanging around Potter as he pissed when Potter's cock had been shoved up his arse just hours earlier. They didn't get in the shower together, but Draco caught Potter watching him as he bent over to wash his lower legs, and he took his time straightening back up, feeling at once wanton and like the world's biggest prat.

They didn't talk at all.

*

"God, this thing is evil," Ginny said when Potter told her of the new development later that morning.

"Ginny, I need to tell you something," Potter said. He looked determined.

"You two had sex, and this is what caused it," Ginny said. "Right?"

"It's not like that," Draco said. Potter gave him a warning glance, but Draco ignored him. "He didn't cheat on you; it's not cheating if it's just sex with no meaning." What? _What?_ Why was he saying this?

"Ginny, I'm sorry," Potter said. "I know I told you it wasn't going to happen--"

"I knew you were going to try it," Ginny said with a shrug. "I could see it in your eyes even when Hermione suggested it. That's kind of why I got so weird yesterday; I guess I was jealous, for all that I thought it wouldn't bother me. It's fine."

"I kissed him," Potter said, looking away. "I'm sorry."

Ginny's expression went from stoic understanding to naked, abject hurt so quickly that Draco began babbling again. "We're not going to start going out, for fuck's sake." He didn't know _why_ he was trying to defend Potter to his girlfriend, but there it was. "He was just being kind."

"Sweet of you to be so reassuring, Malfoy," Ginny said dryly, though the look on her face was the same what-does-he-see-in-her curiosity he'd often noticed on younger Slytherin girls' faces when they looked at Pansy. She turned to Potter. "Look, I knew this was going to be a bit of a mess no matter what I asked you for, Harry. I-- I guess I'll just have to think about how I feel."

Potter looked up at her, surprised. "You're not angry?"

"Of course I'm angry; I'm bloody furious!" Ginny snapped. "But it's not like any of this is your fault," she added, softening. "Not really."

As the two of them looked at each other, Draco wished desperately that he could leave, so that he wouldn't have to witness an obviously private moment that belonged only to the two of them. Whatever his feelings about Potter, he wasn't a brute. He settled for looking down at his hands.

"So what do we do?" Potter asked after a few minutes.

"Stop seeing each other for now," Ginny said. "I think it would be best."

"All right," Potter said, bowing his head. "I'm so sorry."

"Got to go."

She left, and Draco still couldn't look at Potter. He had worked out why he'd been so keen on arguing for Potter; the things he'd said were ones he secretly hoped Potter would contradict. That it had no meaning. That Potter was just being kind.

He wanted Potter to tell him it had meant something.

He wanted Potter to tell him that he had not kissed Draco out of kindness.

As much as Draco _knew_ the truth, he wanted the truth to be wrong so very badly.

And then another thing happened that Draco had never thought possible: Granger walked in, and Draco was spectacularly fucking glad to see her.

"Oh my God, Harry, what happened?" she cried.

"I think Ginny just broke up with me," Potter said, his voice thick.

Draco looked up at him; Potter's eyes were red, brimming with tears. It _hurt_. Why? Why did it hurt him to see Potter nearly crying over someone else? Fuck, what had Draco _done_ to himself?

"What?" Granger asked. "Why? Oh. Oh! You didn't?" She gestured towards Draco, and Draco looked down, unable to answer her.

"Didn't work," Potter said. He sniffed and took a deep breath. "Made it worse, actually. We can't even go a few feet apart now."

"Oh, but that's excellent!" Granger exclaimed. "There's only one spell that -- oh, God, Harry, I'm so sorry; I didn't mean it like that." She glared at Draco.

"Why am I getting glared at?" Draco protested. "It was Potter's idea too."

"Malfoy, just shut up, for fuck's sake," Potter barked, and though the words were sharp enough, Potter's tone of voice -- dismissive, uncaring, expecting Draco to do just as he's told -- sliced through Draco like a thousand slivers of cold steel.

"Oh, I see how it is," he said, bile rising in his throat. "We're going to make everything all my fault, because what the hell, it's just Malfoy, who gives a fuck, right?"

He leapt up off the sofa and stormed towards the doorway, his heart thrumming in his ears, his vision blurring and his mind going dark. If he could just get to the doorway, maybe he could _break_ free of the fucking bond and be gone from here, gone.

Gone.

*

He woke in an unfamiliar room, and then recognised his own bedroom at the new Manor. His mother sat by his side, embroidering the edge of something large and white.

"Is it over?" Draco asked, sitting up.

"Oh, _Draco_!" Narcissa cried, dropping the embroidery hoops and throwing her arms around him. She smelled like roses. "Thank goodness."

"Is it over?" Draco asked again, hugging her back. "Did the curse break?"

Narcissa let go of him and fussed with his coverlet. "I'm afraid not. But Miss Granger was able to identify the spell -- I don't know how she did it, she wouldn't elaborate -- and now there's a potion that'll make you all better. You just have to make sure you take it every six hours."

"What if I sleep for nine hours?"

"You won't wake up." She took out a handkerchief and blotted at her eyes. "We'll work something out. The potion doesn't keep very long, but I've put a house-elf in charge of it so there's always a fresh batch. The elf will also bring it to you when it's time."

Draco took a deep breath and lay back down on his pillow. "What will we tell Father when he comes back?"

"You still don't want him to know?"

"No," Draco said. "He'd try to use it somehow."

"You're being rather harsh, Draco. Lucius would never do anything to hurt you."

"You're right, I guess he wouldn't. But I still don't want him to know. It's embarrassing enough that you know."

Narcissa sighed. "I thought you were past the 'being embarrassed by your parents' age." But she smiled. "We'll tell him it's a wasting sickness. That you picked it up in the Room of Hidden Things and that it was incubating this whole time."

"He'll have kittens. Or try to hold Hogwarts responsible. Or both."

Narcissa laughed softly. "Leave your father to me."

"So we still don't know who did this to me."

"We probably never will. But at least they didn't succeed. You're okay, and so is Mr Potter. I'll go and fetch you some tea, wait right there. Don't get up yet."

"Mother," Draco called just before she passed through the doorway, and she turned around. "Did Potter say anything to you? About me, I mean."

"No, he didn't. Why, should he have?"

"No," Draco said, turning his head to the side. "I suppose not."

*

On a dull grey morning in mid-July, Draco was putting Silver Winter through her paces at Dulwich. She had been especially happy since his return -- Narcissa had tended to her during Draco's absence, but _he_ was Winter's wizard. He'd won her loyalty with patience and perseverance. In a way, Winter was Draco's only real friend. But he was all right with that. Other people always wanted to undercut you, to show you up, to make you suffer so they could laugh. Winged horses just wanted to fly with you on their backs.

"Come on, Winter," he called. "I've got to get back home to take my medicine, and then it's time for N.E.W.T.s. I'll come by tomorrow and tell you how easy they were."

He hadn't had much luck focussing on his NEWT preparation. What had happened to him at Grimmauld Place haunted him, and he had had a hard time coming to terms with what he really felt for Potter, but he was an adult, he was skilled, thanks to his parents and even Aunt Bellatrix; he would do well enough.

Most days he wished he didn't need to sleep, for in his dreams, he always saw Potter, kissing him, pounding into him and waking up next to him, smiling -- that sweet, precious smile that would never be for Draco. Lately, another dream kept intruding into the fantasies: Draco saw himself, staring into a mirror with a demented smile on his face, his eyes lost to madness. He hoped it wasn't a vision of the future.

He was on his way to the Apparition grounds behind the wizarding stables -- because of the Muggle presence, they had to have such things in London -- when Potter stepped out from behind a utility shed. "Can we talk?"

"I don't see what we've got to talk about, but can we do it later?" Draco resented the way his heart was jumping out of his chest, but he had steeled himself for this, knowing that he'd run into Potter eventually. He _was_ an adult, and he was going to behave like one. "I've got to go home to take my potion and then I've got NEWTs."

"I was watching you out there," Potter said.

Draco glanced around as he adjusted his ridiculous Muggle riding outfit. "Why? I wasn't doing anything illegal. There's a Ministry decree in the office," -- he jerked his thumb towards the main building -- "that wizards may use the grounds without a Disillusionment Charm between five and six in the morning, and again between eleven and midnight. It's not even six yet and I'm already leaving. So what were you watching me for?"

"Never mind," Potter said, looking vexed. "Meet me at that tavern, Cadogan Arms, after NEWTs finish, all right?"

"Sure," Draco said, walking away, wondering what on earth Potter wanted with him. He had no illusions about anything; Potter had rejected him quite soundly, and he had not tried to contact Draco once. Not that Draco had held out any hope for that. Not even for one day.

Cadogan Arms, huh. He had gone back to that little park and that bench a few times since last month. It wasn't even a particularly special memory, but it was the only place, besides Potter's house, where they had met and talked with a common purpose, not hatred or resentment.

*

Potter was waiting for him this time. "Shall we?" he asked, nodding at the pub's doors.

"We aren't on a date," Draco said with the shadow of a smirk, and a few moments later, they were back at the playground again. It almost felt comfortable, though Draco's hands were shaking so badly he kept them in his pockets, and he kept his eyes away from Potter's face.

"What did you want to talk about?" Draco asked, gazing at a Muggle toddler dragging her laughing mother towards the swings on the other end of the enclosure.

"Can you look at me?"

"I can, I just don't want to. Potter, just say what you've got to say."

"I'm sorry," Potter said. "I treated you poorly the last time we saw each other. I never meant to hurt you."

"Okay," Draco said, rising. "You're forgiven."

"Malfoy, wait!" Potter's hand closed around Draco's forearm, nearly wrenching his hand out of his pocket.

"Don't," Draco said, moving aside. "Don't touch me."

"I want to."

Draco would not look at Potter; if he looked, he would be lost. "Well, I don't want you to."

"Malfoy, I want you," Potter said, his voice cracking. "I keep thinking about what we did, and -- it was so different from how it is-- _was_ with Ginny. Not better or worse, just different, more intense, I guess, I dunno. I was always so afraid of hurting her that I never really let go with her, even though I ended up hurting her in the end. With you, though, I felt like I could let go, because--"

"Because it doesn't matter if you hurt me."

"For fuck's sake, of course it matters!" Potter said, shifting from foot to foot. "You and me, we just. We just spent so much time hurting each other that I know you can handle it so I'm -- I'm not afraid."

Draco sighed. This, too, had crossed his mind when he'd sat down and thought about what he was going to do if he and Potter ever discussed this subject again. It was quite marvellous how _calm_ he had become after Potter's knife in his back; he had gone back to his old self again, able to put his feelings quietly aside and act according to reason, even though his hands were shaking as his stomach performed extreme athletics. "You want us to fuck, no strings attached."

"I-- if you put it like that, yeah, I guess. I don't think we could have a real relationship even if we tried."

"Well, you're certainly right about that," Draco said. "Anyway, I'm not interested."

And now Potter would ask him why. It wasn't that Draco knew him so well; he didn't at all; he had just come to understand that far deep down, Potter was terrified there was something innately wrong with him. With every rejection, that fear came bubbling forth, so he asked why, hoping for a real answer, dreading it: to hear the other person tell him what that terribly wrong thing was. Draco understood that because he thought that deep enough inside, everyone felt that way. Potter was just more aware of it than most people.

"Can you tell me why?" Potter asked.

Draco thought about all the glib lies he could spin right then, all the lies he had spun in his mind when he'd thought about this version of their conversation. Kind lies that left Potter feeling like he could do no wrong ever again. Harsh lies that would make Potter feel like a shitstain. All the big and little lies in between.

 _The only time to be honest._

"Are you sure you want to know why?" he asked, stalling. "You will not like it."

 _Everything you did was because you lacked the courage to do what was right in the first place._

"Yeah," Potter said. "I want to know why."

Draco looked at him, regretting that his last memory of Potter's eyes on his would be so very bitter.

"Because I'm in love with you, that's why," he said. "Good-bye, Potter."

He walked away as fast as he could without running and Disapparated the minute he got into the trees.

*

A week later, the Malfoys were finally called to the inquest.

Draco disengaged himself from all emotion, just as his father had advised. He repeated all the answers his father had drilled into him word for word, without faltering, without unnecessary explanations. They weren't supposed to be using Veritaserum, but even if they went that far, Draco knew he could withstand its effects if necessary, thanks to Aunt Bellatrix.

Did he or did he not aid the Dark organisation known as the Death Eaters in entering Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? He did, because he believed with all his heart that his parents would be murdered if he refused or failed.

Did he or did he not plot to murder Albus Dumbledore? Yes, he did, because he believed with all his heart that his parents would be murdered if he refused or failed.

Did he or did he not murder Albus Dumbledore? No, he did not. Albus Dumbledore had offered to help the Malfoy family to escape the Death Eaters, and Draco was considering said offer when Severus Snape appeared and cast the Killing Curse on Albus Dumbledore.

Did he or did he not receive instruction in Dark magic, Unforgivable Curses, and advanced techniques such as Occlumency from dangerous criminal, Azkaban escapee and Dark witch Bellatrix Lestrange? Yes, he did; he believed Occlumency would be a useful skill to him, and he had no choice in learning Unforgivable Curses and various Dark spells because Bellatrix Lestrange was mad and would have easily killed him if he dared disobey.

Did he or did he not participate in the murder of Hogwarts Muggle Studies professor Mrs Charity Burbage? No, he did not participate in the murder, though he had witnessed it. At the time that he had witnessed it, he had been one underage wizard at a meeting of seasoned Death Eaters, presided over by Lord Voldemort himself.

Did he or did he not identify Harry Potter to Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy when Harry Potter was brought to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire by the illegal kidnapping organisation known as the Snatchers? No, he did not identify Harry Potter.

Was he aware that he was in the presence of Harry Potter at that time? Yes, he was aware. He had gone to Hogwarts with Harry Potter for many years and did not need to see his face to recognise him.

Had he recognised Harry Potter's companions? Yes, he had recognised them both very clearly as neither of them were disguised.

Had he identified them when asked to do so? No, he pretended not to be sure.

Why did he not identify Harry Potter or his companions? Was he not fearful that disobeying Bellatrix Lestrange would lead to his death? He did not identify Harry Potter or his companions because he had been told by his father to do his best to protect Harry Potter against harm, and he believed that keeping his companions out of danger also served that purpose. He was very fearful of Bellatrix Lestrange, but he did not believe she would try to punish him for not knowing in the presence of her sister, Draco's mother.

Did he or did he not aid Bellatrix Lestrange in attempting to recapture Harry Potter when he escaped his captivity in the cellars of Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire? Yes, he did, because failing to have done so would have certainly ruined all of Lucius Malfoy's careful plans to betray Lord Voldemort. Draco didn't even flinch when he said that name anymore.

Did he or did he not cast Fiendfyre in the Room of Hidden Things -- which they called the Room of Requirement for some ridiculous reason -- at Hogwarts? No, he did not; that had been his housemate Vincent Crabbe, deceased.

When did Draco become aware of the plan to betray Lord Voldemort? Shortly after he returned from Hogwarts for the Easter Holidays; only days before Harry Potter and his companions were brought to Malfoy Manor.

On and on the questions went, repetitive, monotonous, retreading the same ground, trying to get him to admit to wrongdoing, to wanting pure-blood families to rule the wizarding world, to hatred of Muggles. Witness statements were read out, all of them matching the truths Draco had told, none of them exposing the carefully deflected lies.

In the end, he received an indefinitely suspended sentence of six years in Azkaban. He would go to prison immediately if he committed any crime, however petty, at any point during the rest of his life. He was then told to go and wait in a withdrawing chamber to await the outcomes of his parents' testimony.

Three hours into the wait, Potter approached him. Draco had not seen him in the hearing room, and he supposed Potter wouldn't have been there in the first place, seeing as he couldn't be a witness. For this, too, he had planned. He knew he couldn't go the rest of his life without seeing Potter again after confessing his feelings, so he had prepared.

"Hermione wanted to know if you've been experiencing any side effects from the potion we're taking," Potter said without preamble, and Draco relaxed.

"Side effects?" he asked, sitting up a little straighter. "Of what sort?"

"Memory-related mostly, because of the Jobberknoll feathers in it. I've been remembering things from early childhood with amazing clarity. It's a bit scary, actually."

"No, nothing like that. Just some bizarre dreams, that's all," Draco said. He looked at Potter, but not into his eyes; he focussed on the middle bit of Potter's glasses.

"And I wanted to apologise for last time," Potter said. "I really didn't know. I didn't mean to--"

"Save it, Potter, seriously." As prepared as Draco had been, his voice cracked, but he hoped Potter didn't hear it. "Was there anything else?"

"No," Potter said, looking down. Then he walked away.

Draco sat very still, feeling acutely alone. He had also thought of another possibility for this meeting: one right out of one of his mother's guilty-pleasure Miss Flappington novels. That Potter, upon hearing Draco's confession, would have spent some time searching his own feelings and then he'd realise he loved Draco back. It would be just as he'd spent time thinking about sex with Draco and realised he wanted to do it all those weeks ago. But that had been a fancy, really; Draco hadn't even bothered preparing for _that_.

In the real world, people who -- against all logic -- fell in love with their enemies were pitied at best, mocked at worst. And knowing Potter, he was all pity for Draco now, wasn't he?

The dreams about the mirror _had_ got worse lately in that they lasted longer, but all he ever saw was just his own face with that unnerving grin, like a madman's leer. Draco had not considered that the potion may have been at fault for the dreams. Could it be that the dream-image was something he'd forgotten, blocked out of his memory perhaps? Some dreadful recollection from sixth year? But he had just talked about his sixth year and the seventh at great lengths, and never once did he falter. Every time period was accounted for.

An earlier memory? He tried to remember if there was anything reflected in the mirror besides himself, but couldn't bring anything up. It was just a mirror, like a thousand of them. Not the mirror in which he had seen Potter through his tears that day Potter had nearly murdered him, at least. Funny how _that_ had never come up during the inquest. At any rate, Draco was concerned enough now that he would brew a memory-restoring potion, just to be sure, when the inquest was over. He knew from his Legilimency training that memories never went away; charms and curses merely severed the fragile connections needed to bring them to mind.

His parents came out a few minutes later, his father with a suspended twenty-five-year sentence, his mother with a full pardon. Just as they had planned.

*

Draco sat in the new Malfoy Manor's cellar, leaning against a cask of elf-made wine, clutching his second bottle of same, laughing harshly as tears streamed down his face. His parents had gone to France for a week to celebrate their success at the inquest, but he had declined to go with them, for he had brewed himself a potent little memory-restoring potion and then he had drunk it all up.

Nothing had been the same since then.

Draco hiccoughed and took a long swallow of wine. "I'm such a fucking idiot," he shouted. "I'm the biggest fucking idiot in ALL the world!"

He remembered now -- the mirror, the demented smile, his mad eyes. The mirror had been in his bathroom at the old Manor, and the mad eyes had not been mad, not really; just aflame with excitement at a plan finally, _finally_ going right.

That had been right before he'd forgotten all about the plan.

"Forgot all about it, how about that, house-elves and wine bottles?" Draco began to laugh again, banging the back of his head against the wine cask. "Fuck, that kind of hurts."

He drained the bottle and set it carefully on the floor next to its twin and addressed a hole in the wall. "I know you're hiding in there, Elmer, don't worry, I'm not going to destroy anything."

"Is Master Draco wishing for more wine?" the elf squeaked from its hiding place. "Elmer will open another bottle if Master Draco wishes, though Elmer is afraid Mistress shall be cross that Elmer let Master Draco drink too much wine. But Master Draco is Elmer's master; Elmer cannot stop Master Draco!" it wailed.

"One more, Elmer," Draco said. "One more bottle. I won't ask for another."

"Master Draco promises?"

"Master Draco promises," Draco agreed. "And Master Draco always keeps his promises, even when they fucking destroy him."

The elf trotted to him, clutching the bottle in its spindly little hands.

"Thanks ever so, Elmer, my partner in crime." Draco roared with laughter. "My partner in crime's an elf, I'm in love with a half-blood, and I've been a blood-traitor since I started drinking Granger's potion. How about that, friends and neighbours? How about _that_? I wish Zabini were here; he'd unleash one of his usual witticisms on the subject of the mighty and the fallen."

Draco scratched his head. "No, forget Zabini; he's fucking depressing. Where was I? The mighty and the dropped from a considerable height as children. No, no..." He tilted the bottle over his head and let the wine pour into his mouth. His aim was off, though, and half of it poured down his chin and into his robes.

This brought a fresh set of tears, and Draco shook with great big noisy sobs, because it was all just so fucking sad.

One of the curses he'd flung at Potter at Malfoy Manor _had_ connected. Potter hadn't noticed. No one had noticed, for it had not been a curse that maimed, killed, or otherwise incapacitated. It had been a long-lost Dark bonding curse, one that only took effect the next time caster and target met face to face.

The thing Draco hadn't known, the thing he'd missed because it hadn't been in the book he'd originally learned the curse from -- a book he'd come across by chance while researching for Potions, a book that had burned in the Room of Hidden Things somewhere -- the thing he'd learned after frantically running down to the library in his pyjamas after the memory-restoring potion finished its dirty work -- the thing.

Thing?

Oh, yes, the thing. The thing was that the caster _forgot_ about having cast the curse shortly after it was done. It was a curse designed for mutual destruction, designed to get you so close to an enemy you couldn't live without literally melting into each other, designed to destroy you both. There was no way out of it, no way to reverse it, because the caster would not remember to do the counter-curse.

"BECAUSE I FORGOT ALL ABOUT IT! I ALMOST BLOODY FUCKING KILLED MYSELF _AND_ POTTER. HOW ABOUT THAT, ELVES AND BOTTLES?"

Another sob shook him, and Draco wiped his nose with his robe sleeve. His intent hadn't been to destroy Potter. Not that, not ever. He had simply wanted to ensure a place beside Potter for himself, and hopefully for his parents. He had planned to cast the bond, wait for it to work -- as it tightened, Apparating anywhere except the other person's side would become impossible, and then, when the war ended, Draco would simply end the curse when it became possible to make it look like someone who died in the fighting had done it in the first place. Then he would walk away safe and sound, and maybe even with a few side benefits, like getting to fuck the one bloke he never thought he could have. Being forced into close quarters had a way of loosening inhibitions, as Draco had suspected -- and later learned, to his regret.

"God, it made so much _sense_ when I thought of it," Draco said, giggling and hiccoughing. "Safe by Potter's side. Fucking Dumbledore. This is all his fault. He _said_ he could keep my family safe, Elmer! And I half believed him! So when Snape dropped _him_ from a considerable height, I started to think that oh, Potter could keep me safe if only I could give him something good in return. Then that all went tits up when Potter didn't even show up at school."

He was really fucking glad he hadn't remembered all this before the inquest. If he had, oh, if he had. He laughed again, loud and harsh, trying to remember when was the last time he'd felt this unhinged.

"Never, would be my guess," Draco opined, pouring more wine into his mouth, from a safer distance this time. "Here's to Hermione bloody Granger, another person to whom I owe my miserable life."

"I think I'm going to be violently sick now, Elmer."

*

The next day's pounding headache made his interview with Winkus Harkiss more challenging than he had hoped, but at the end of it, he was officially an apprentice Granian trainer. He had not thought he would actually go through with the tale he'd spun for the Parkinsons all those days ago, but he had grown fond of the idea. It would give him all the time he wanted with Winter, whom he hoped to introduce to racing as early as next year, if all went well.

Also, apprenticeship at the stables gave him an official reason to go to the Ministry: he had to register in person. It took him no time at all to make a side-trip to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where he lurked, disguised as a woman, until he caught a glimpse of Potter, just long enough to cast the counter-curse.

And then a little longer, just because he wanted to look at Potter without Potter knowing he was being looked at. He stood transfixed at Potter's every move: scribbling in a thick file, then turning around to say something to his cubicle partner, whom Draco couldn't see, flashing a wicked, saucy grin to a passing colleague for a scandalously lewd remark -- really, _these_ were Wizarding Britain's finest? -- leaning back and tapping his quill on the side of his face, taking a sip of probably stale tea, lifting his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose when he was trying to concentrate. So many little things Draco had never noticed before, and there were so many he would never even see.

He finally fled when a stocky Auror with sideburns gave him -- well, her given Draco's outfit -- a considering frown. It was a good thing Potter had many admirers; Draco would just be dismissed as one of them.

Of course, Potter wouldn't know anything had changed unless he forgot to dose himself with the potion one day, but Draco just wanted to stop the curse. He would have to work out a way to let Potter know it was safe to stop taking the potion, but he had no intention of _telling_ him Draco had been behind it all. Ginny, for one, would murder him gleefully, he was sure. He'd even keep taking the potion himself -- on the off chance the Ministry _was_ spying on the Manor. He couldn't take the chance of _anyone_ finding out that he was no longer taking the potion.

*

"Here is Master Draco's morning medicine."

Draco took the vial from the elf -- good old Elmer -- and grimaced. With the most important memory back where it belonged, now _he_ , like Potter, was remembering things from his childhood, usually things he rather wished would stay forgotten, like that time he had fallen off his toy broomstick at his sixth birthday party. In front of everyone. People had _laughed_.

Maybe if he Vanished the potion instead of drinking it... but what if someone was _watching_? He couldn't take the chance.

"Elmer will gather Master Draco's things for the washing now," the elf said, diving into the wardrobe.

"You do that," Draco muttered.

He sort of liked Elmer, perhaps because Elmer was the only one who knew his secret, and he didn't even need to be threatened not to tell anyone. Maybe Draco had had it all wrong. Those most loyal to him, besides his parents, so far in his life, were a Granian and a house-elf. Maybe there was even merit in befriending a house-elf. Maybe Regulus Black had had it right.

"Master Draco?"

Draco set the potion aside. "Yes, Elmer, what is it?"

"Elmer has just found this strange object behind Master Draco's collection of very colourful magazines." He held up the pager, and Draco's chest tightened as he remembered the last time he'd seen the thing.

`Let's do it again. HP`

It had been six days since he'd seen Potter last, and Draco still remembered every little detail from the Ministry. He also remembered everything else, and he suspected the bloody potion was going to ensure he never forgot. Part of him wanted that. The rest of him wanted to cast a Memory Charm on himself already. _Stop it._

He downed the potion quickly, wincing at the taste -- like burned old boots -- and turned his attention back to the pager. What was it doing there? Draco had been unconscious when he'd left Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. His mother would certainly not have taken it from the bedside cabinet when gathering Draco's things for the trip home.

"Elmer, do you have any idea how this might have got into my wardrobe?"

"Elmer could guess that it fell out of one of Master Draco's pockets at some other time." The elf suddenly looked bashful. "But Elmer did not ask the Mistress permission to do Master Draco's laundry until this week, so Elmer really does not know. Elmer is very sorry he cannot answer Master Draco's question. Elmer will punish himself--"

"No, don't punish yourself. Just get on with your work." Elmer had _asked_ to do Draco's laundry? House-elves could do that? Draco shook his head. _Never mind the elf. I want to know if I can see that message again. The one where he said he wanted to do it again._

He tried turning it on, but it wouldn't work, so he dug around in the pile of parchment in the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet until he found Granger's instructions.

 _The pager needs electricity to work - that's a Muggle power source; if you've ever seen street lamps in cities, those run off electricity as well. The pager has a battery inside it; it is like the heart of the pager. If you connect the battery to a source of electricity, it will feed on the electricity until it is full. You know it's full when you see the battery indicator look like this:_

There was a crude drawing of a rectangle with fat diagonal bars across it. Draco ran through the rest of the paragraph and dug out the feeding tube. Granger called it a "power cord" but if it fed the pager, then it was a feeding tube; Draco had no intention of learning Muggle vocabulary. The tube was attached to a heavy black rectangular thing with three large prongs. "Ah, that must be the, um, plug." Now I need to find a... what was it?" -- he moved his finger down the page -- "Internet Café". Granger had even included a list of ones near Draco's house.

*

Draco sat and nursed his second mug of terrible coffee, eyeing the "battery indicator" on the pager and trying to look nonchalant. He had no idea what was normally done at an "Internet Café", but the other people all seemed intent on grey boxes with large shiny fronts, some pecking away at button arrays in front of them, others twitching their hands over odd half-spherical devices. Draco was just sitting at an empty table near a "wall socket" waiting for his pager to finish eating.

He'd turned the thing on about twenty minutes ago, but it hadn't done anything except display a welcome message. He probably had to wait until the "battery indicator" looked like Granger's drawing.

The machine beeped several times in succession, and Draco nearly spilled the awful coffee all over himself. He picked the pager up, and it informed him that there were new messages. It even displayed a list, though there were too many to fit on one screen, so he had to push a little arrow to see more. There were over a dozen new messages, all of them dated in the past. He couldn't tell who they were from, but there was only one person they _could_ be from, wasn't there?

Draco's heart began to pound. He started pushing the arrows, trying to remember how he'd got Potter's last message to him to come up, but there were some numbers involved in that, weren't there? Then he realised he had left the instruction sheet at home. Fuck. So he sat there, sipping bad coffee and staring at the machine, hoping that a couple of hours would be enough to return it to life long enough for him to read those messages.

Then he gathered up his belongings and returned home, practically running to his bedroom where the instructions lay forgotten on his pillow.

He sensed with every instinct that he should just toss the bloody device away, but he couldn't. These were letters from someone he loved.

`JUN30 I'm sorry. I'm just sending this so you know I put the pager in your pocket. Just in case. HP`

`JUL01 Are you there? HP`

`JUL05 I guess you must have thrown your pager out. Probably best. HP`

`JUL13 I'm coming to talk to you at Dulwich tomorrow, fair warning. HP`

`JUL28 I really am sorry. If I had known how you felt, I would never have asked you for something like that. HP`

`JUL31 drunk lonely. House a mess everyone left. wish I could see you. I dont' even now if I mean ginny or malfy whats wrong with me`

`AUG03 I should just write you, but I guess you don't want to hear from me. This way I can pretend I'm talking to you even if I know you won't read it. I know it isn't fair, but I want to see you. I've tried to put what we did out of my mind but I can't. The potion's making me remember things from when I was a kid, like a quiet little boy named Owen who I sometimes played with. We weren't mates, not really, because Dudley (that's my cousin) would bully my mates worse than he bullied me, so I didn't dar`

`AUG03 e call anyone a friend. We got on well though. I remember thinking Owen was sort of cute. I was too young to care about sex back then but a few times we kind of joked around about growing up and running away together like Bonnie & Clyde from the film. Only I don't think we were really joking. A teacher overheard us one day and it was sort of a circus for a while with angry parents and all that. I guess I forgot because it was too painful. I've been remembering a lot of stuff like this lately, be`

`AUG03 cause of the potion. Like the time Dudley chased me up a tree, and there was a cat in the tree too. Dudley's gang started throwing rocks, and they got the cat right in the eye. I cried for days after that, but then it was just gone. I think my brain just decided to forget the most horrible things because otherwise I would've probably offed myself long before I got my Hogwarts letter. But back to Owen, I was thinking about what you told me that night, about being gay, I think it's more than tha`

`AUG03 t because it isn't really just about sex for me. Ginny sez that's weird because blokes my age aren't supposed to think about much besides sex when it comes to that sort of relationship, but I guess I realised I've always kind of been drawn to people in general. Pretty girls have always made my heart beat faster, and women turn me on, so I knew I must be straight, so I assumed that with blokes, being drawn to them meant I wanted to be friends. But you've never been my friend, the opposite actuall`

`AUG03 y, but every time I see you, I want you so bad it feels like my body's too small to contain the feeling, feels like it's going to burst out of my chest like some creature from outer space. It's not just because I can't have you; I was feeling like that after the first time we did it. But it scared me and made me furious - with myself for being unfaithful to Ginny but mostly with you for causing it. Not fair, I know. I don't even like you - I mean, I don't hate you like before, but we're too diff`

`AUG03 erent and too much happened in the past for me to think of you as someone I might care about. Maybe if we tried being friends I would come to feel differently but I don't know how we could do that. Ron thinks I'm mental and told me to just find another bloke. Though I think he's secretly happy Ginny and I haven't got back together, so I reckon he wouldn't be too pissed off if I did become friends with you. But I don't see that happening and I doubt you could either. I guess I just wanted to tell`

`AUG03 you everything before I gave up. Even though your pager's probably in some rubbish heap somewhere, so it's unlikely you'll actually ever know any of this. Hermione said she's going to disconnect the pagers next week, since there's a monthly fee that's just going to waste. That's what made me pick this thing up again, because I feel like it's the last chance I'll have to be honest. I couldn't tell you any of this in person, anyway, because I can't think properly when I see you. I might write a pr`

`AUG 03 oper letter one day, but I don't think I will. It's really best if I just leave it alone and move on. HP`

"Miss Flappington, eat your heart out," Draco murmured. The third of August had been five days ago. One day after Draco had cast the counter-curse.

There was a knock on his door, and his mother walked in with a strange expression on her face. Draco shoved the pager in his pocket hastily, feeding tube and all.

"Miss Granger has come to call," she said. "She says she'd like to speak with you."

"Is it about the curse?" Draco asked, keeping his face very still.

"No; I asked, and she said it was about another matter. She's waiting for you in the inner courtyard."

Draco was sure Granger knew everything the minute he saw her face. Unsurprising; really; once the memory connection was made, it was only a matter of time before narrowing down the correct curse.

"Don't look at me like that," he said. "I remembered. And undid it as soon as I remembered, days ago. I just didn't know how to tell you lot without getting myself killed."

"Oh," Granger said. "Are you saying you didn't mean for all that stuff to happen? You and Harry, I mean."

"Who knows?" Draco said, understanding at a glance that Potter had told her _everything_. "You want some tea or something? I can have a table brought out here."

"No, thank you," Granger said, peering at the fountain as though it might bite her. "What do you mean, who knows? I thought you said you remembered."

"I do." And he told her. There was nothing this woman _didn't_ know about him, thanks to Potter, so he saw no reason to hide this from her, not when she could ruin his life over it. "I just wanted a way out."

She shrugged resignedly. "I understand, I guess. Though quite honestly, right next to Harry was the most dangerous place of all."

"I know that now," Draco said, meaning it in all sorts of ways Granger would probably not pick up on.

"I'll have to tell him," she said.

"I know," Draco said.

"Don't you care?" Granger asked in a small voice. "He'll likely go back to hating you again."

"He was always going to hate me anyway."

She pursed her lips. "All right, well, I guess I got what I came for. Though I admit I expected to have to beat it out of you."

"Full confession's been my style lately. It's good for the soul, they say."

Granger smiled a little at that, but Draco didn't understand why. Then he remembered the pager in his robes. Luckily, it still had the feeding tube attached. "Here. Don't tell him I had it."

"Harry said he was sure you threw it out."

"Actually, Potter hid it in my pocket. I only just found it today."

She stuffed the thing in her pocket with a small frown. "I'd better go."

"I'll show you out."

Just before she was about to pass through the concealment charm out front, he called, "Hey, Granger?"

She turned. "Yes?"

"Don't read what's on the pager," he said. "It's none of your business." Then he shut the door.

If that didn't make Granger read Potter's messages as soon as she was out of sight, Draco was a lizard.

He had just put his heart in the hands of a Muggle-born witch.

Contrary to all expectations, he felt pretty good about it.

  
**[end]**   



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